

















































































































~k -" ffe- 



MARY M. CHASE 



AKD 



HER WRITINGS. 



HENRY FOWLER, 



EDITOR 




BOSTON: 
TICKNOR AND FIELDS 

M DCCC LV. 






Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1855, by 

C. THURSTON CHASE, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



THCUSTOX AND TORRY, PRINTKRS. 






TO CORNELIUS CHASE. 

steemed Friend, — 

Two years ago, word came to me, like the startling 
toll of the village church bell, that the life of your 
daughter Mary was ebbing fast. I broke from busi- 
ness, and sought out the yet unknown way among the 
silent hills to your retired home. You met me at the 
door, took my hand, — for you knew me, though 
you had never seen me, — and led me with quiet step 
to her bedside. The flush of setting life was on her 
cheek, and the brightness of a glory soon to be revealed 
shone from her dark eyes, as she said with a smile of 
earnest greeting, 'I thank thee, for I wished to see 
thee again before I die.' Then she spoke words of 
faith and hope and joy, so full of beauty and truth. 
I Hard it is,' she said, « to part with friends ; my cup 
of life has mantled to overflowing with choice wine ; 
but Heaven now is nigh, and soon I shall drink it new 
in my Father's kingdom.' And then in animating 
words of encouragement for the life before me and 
with a prayer of blessing, she bade me Farewell, in 



IV DEDICATION. 

tones of hallowed sweetness, which have been often 
with me since. And then I turned back to the strifes 
of business. 

This life of ours is too full of partings. But one 
Sabbath had your daughter rested c beside the still 
waters,' ere there stood before her One bound to me 
by closer than filial ties. The first glow of morning 
stole through the window to the East, as that cherished 
life passed away in beautiful serenity to those Realms 
which « need no light of the sun.' * Let me go, for 
the day breaketh,' we wrote above her grave. And 
again I turned back to the strifes of men. 

The months went by, and once more I sought out 
your hill-side home. Again you met me at the door: 
' I am glad to see thee, for thou wert one of Mary's 
friends,' you said, and soon led me with quiet step 
across the narrow pasture westward, over the stone 
stile, and down the wooded slope through a winding 
path, till we stood at the meadow's edge before a 
grassy mound, and read from the small white head- 
stone that it was « Mary's Grave.' Around its base 
lay wreathed the fresh and fragrant Trailing Arbutus ; 
above, the old Oak, to which she was wont to come, 
stretched its wide encircling arms, as if in mute yet 



DEDICATION. V 

conscious protection ; at a short distance, the Brook, 
where as a child she played, murmured its sympathy ; 
on its bank, the graceful Elm which she admired, 
swayed its arching limbs, relieved in Gothic outline 
against the sky ; the Sun was hastening to touch its 
red disc to the soft outline of the distant Caatskills, and 
over the meadow poured a flood of light, whose golden 
waves rolled up the hill-side, and rock and bush and 
trunk of maple, ash, and oak stood bathed in beauty : 
and though she had said to us — 

* Not with vain longings would I have ye stand 
In my loved haunts, and gaze around with pain ; ' 

yet we mourned together. 4 Do not wonder that I bow 
in grief,' you said, as the sun went down, ' for the 
Light of my old age is set.' 

It was early spring-time, and there were as yet no 
leaves upon the trees. As we talked together, the eye 
of friendship detected in me energies prostrated by 
undue labor. ' Fear not,' you said cheerily, pointing 
up to the ' old arm-tree,' * the leaves will come again 
when the desolate winter is fully past. Thou needest 
rest. Wait in quietness the coming on of warm sum- 
mer, and thou, too, wilt find new life.' 

The Spring blossoms are come and gone ; the leaves 



VI DEDICATION. 

have waved their Summer life, turned to Autumn yellow, 
and fallen ; the meadows have been mown, the grain 
cradled, and the corn husked ; the birds have gathered 
from the south, reared their broods, and returned ; and 
I am still beneath your roof. 

During these months you have reviewed the expe- 
riences of threescore years and ten with the satisfac- 
tion of a conqueror ; you have instructed me by your 
wisdom, wrought out from a stern experience through 
independent thinking ; on the Sabbath I have been 
with you to the place where is realized the mingled 
command and promise, ' Be still, and know that I 
am God,' as the silent adoration has ascended from 
the hearts of worshippers ; I have found true com- 
munion with Nature, in all her glorious revelations 
through sunset, mountain, tree, and flower ; T feel the 
pulse of the ; new life' you promised. Now it is time 
to say, Good-bye. On parting, I hand you this volume. 
You remember the sunset by 4 Mary's Grave.' Though 
the day is gone, shall not these clustered Poems be the 
stars to lighten the calm Evening of your life ? 

Your friend, ^ ^ 

Ihe .Lditor. 

Hill-side Home, Thanksgiving Day, 1854. 



CONTENTS. 



SKETCH OF THE LIFE. 

Chapter. pagk> 

I. INTRODUCTORY xiil 

II. TWO POSSIBLE ERRORS OF THE READER 

WOMANLY ADAPTATION SELF-SACRIFICE XV 

III. RAPIDITY IN COMPOSITION CONSCIOUSNESS 

OF POWER x j x 

IV. HUMOR — CONVERSATION — PRACTICAL CHRIS- 



TIANITY 



XXI 



V. COMBINATION OF INTELLECTUAL AND PRAC- 
TICAL GENIUS XXV 

VI. BIOGRAPHY XXvii 

VII. THE TEACHER XXxil 

VIII. LAST DAYS, AN ACCOUNT PREPARED BY C. 

THURSTON CHASE XXXV 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

POETRY. 

INDIAN SUMMER 1 

FLORAL. 

how shall i think of thee 15 

southernwood 17 

a few green leaves 20 

with a bouquet 21 

frazer's tree 22 

trailing arbutus 25 

autumn violet 29 

yellow roses 34 

the flower gift 38 

VISIONS OF A NIGHT. 

VISIONS OF A NIGHT 43 

SONGS. 

TRIUMPH OF SPRING 53 

BIRTHDAY CAROL 58 

CHRISTMAS CAROL 60 

THOU AND I 62 

SONG FOR DECEMBER 65 



CONTENTS. IX 

SISTER MINE 68 

THY LOVE 71 

THE IDLE MAIDEN 72 

WHY I LOVE THEE 75 

TO FANNY 77 

MY CASTLE BY THE RIVER . » 79 

CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE. 

CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE 83 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

THE FALLEN OAK 105 

morning h3 

my native hills 114 

my old dog and my new 116 

my mother 120 

childhood 123 

words of cheer 125 

Christ's blessing 126 

the weary heart • . . . 128 

WITH THE GIFT OF A YARD MEASURE .... 132 

THE WINE CUP 134 

THE PRISONER'S PRAYER 136 

THE NUN OF SANTA MARTHA 139 

GOD CARETH FOR THEE 144 



X CONTENTS. 

THE BIRD AND THE BROOK 146 

INVITATION TO CHRISTMAS 149 

THE PARTING 151 

TO A FRIEND IN EUROPE 154 

COME TO THE HILLS 157 

THE GOLDEN ISLANDS 161 

MY BROTHER 165 

WOMAN 167 

LIGHT FOR THE AGED. 

LIGHT FOR THE AGED 183 

A PRAYER FOR REMEMBRANCE 205 

LETTERS.. . 
LETTERS 211-336 



Bktitfy 



OF THE 



LIFE OF MARY M. CHASE. 



THE LIFE. 



CHAPTER I. 



INTRODUCTORY. 



From the many appreciative friends of Mary M. 
Chase, the earnest request has come to the home 
where her writings are treasured, that those who have 
no opportunity of reading her manuscripts, might par- 
ticipate in the enjoyment of her legacy, as they shared 
in her affections, and cherish her memoiy. It has been 
also urged, that her writings were fitted to effect much 
good beyond the circle of friendship by their inspiring 
influence towards Truth and Goodness, and by the 
radiating of genuine happiness, which converse with 
their free, glad nature and genial sympathies might 
diffuse through the Home Circle ; thus serving to lighten 
the burden of household cares, freshen the monotony 
of daily toil, animate the strong by a bright example, 
and encourage the weak by a noble emulation. 

Her Letters, it was also suggested, should be pre- 
sented to young women, as models of epistolary style, 



XIV SKETCH OF THE LIFE 

in their out-spoken integrity, their winning unreserve, 
their conversational grace, and their investment of the 
every-day experiences of Home, with the true color 
and expression that pictures warm vitality, while pos- 
sessing the happy combination of Pathos and Humor 
which truly represents real life, with its alternating 
tears and smiles, partings and meetings, griefs and 
gladnesses. 

It was also felt that the Aged might find in her 
writings some light for their closing days, and the 
Afflicted some consolation for their sorrowing hearts. 

To meet this expressed want, a selection has been 
made from her Writings, which it was deemed best to 
accompany with a brief Sketch, presenting a distinct 
and reliable outline of her Life and Character. 

An extended Biography is less essential, because her 
life consisted much in the workings of her mind, which 
the writings reveal with peculiar openness, as well in 
its rare beauties as in its necessitated imperfections ; 
while eulogy would be dissonant with the directness 
and simplicity of her nature. 

It is proposed to devote whatever profits may accrue 
from the sale of this work to some educational or 
charitable purpose, fitted to enlist the co-operation of 
all her friends ; and, by reference to Letter XL VI. on 
1 Greenwood,' it will be seen that this plan harmonizes 
happily with her own sentiment. 



OF MARY M. CHASE. XV 



CHAPTER II. 

TWO POSSIBLE ERRORS OF THE READER WOMANLY 

ADAPTATION SELF-SACRIFICE. 

Faithful as is the transcript of the c inner life ' of 
Mary Chase, penned by herself in the Poems and 
Letters, two points exist in which a stranger would 
probably be led astray. In the first place, some of her 
poems are pervaded with a sentiment of dark dis- 
couragement or unrest, not rightly representing her. 
4 Indian Summer ' and ' The Weary Heart ' are exam- 
ples. So far from this being the case, her character 
was free from that vague sensibility, which creates out 
of the grim facts of actual life only huge, distorted 
apparitions to scare the soul. There was no yielding 
of the heart to morbid sentiment and despairing tears. 
Her spirit was strong, and upright, and brave. She 
met duties, trials, vexations, with a vigor which forth- 
with conquered or scattered them. She held the helm 
on the voyage of life with so firm a hand and so sure 
a hope, that the whirling eddies and the counter cur- 
rents served rather as excitement than discouragement. 
I dare not say that she experienced no states of mind 
in which c the darkness may be felt.' She may have 
adopted them for some present purpose with the facility 
of genius, in order justly to represent them as existing 






XVI SKETCH OF THE LIFE 



in others ; and at times they may have been developed 
from within, as in all strong and passionate natures 
who see with such penetrating insight and feel with 
such absorbing intensity : yet it was so far from a pre- 
vailing element in her nature, that intimacy alone de- 
tected it. On the contrary, her natural spirits were 
unconquerable, her vivacity exuberant, her vitality in- 
exhaustible, and her humor gushing and sparkling day 
by day, without drought or stagnation, like the over- 
flowing waters of a living spring, whose source lies 
where neither storm nor heat can vary its continuous 
outwelling. 

In a second respect, more serious, Mary Chase's 
poetry inaccurately represents her. It does injustice 
to her genius. She has written nothing, I venture to 
say, fully equal to her highest power. She had never 
taxed herself to the utmost on any one composition, nor 
wrought upon one poem to its greatest capacity of 
polish. She felt this herself. She was conscious of 
power in reserve. I know that the world judge by the 
fruits, and by these alone ; yet it is due to her to say 
that the reaper, Death, came by ere the kernel of 
the wheat was full and the stalk golden. In my free 
access to her papers, I have found a large quantity of 
manuscript essays, tales and poems, many of the last 
written in pencil on fragments of paper, evidently first 
drafts, laid aside for future revision. But this labor 
was never accomplished, and ■ there is no work in the 
grave.' I would say, in hope of the good it may sug- 



OF MARY M. CHASE. XV11 

gest, that it was a wrong to herself and to others that 
she wrote much instead of perfecting little. She might 
have done this. Her mental powers had reached full 
vigor, and needed but the discipline of thorough, un- 
wavering effort. But she did not do it, for several 
reasons. 

In the first place, because only a few of her 
many poems did she esteem of sufficient value to 
deserve revising labor ; they were dotted down in 
haste for some special purpose, or to satisfy some 
impulse from within. A felt disparity between what 
she had written and what she had the power to write, 
made her shrink from publication, which would have 
necessitated revision ; while the poet's inspiration was 
ever impelling her to fresh productions. And secondly, 
she yielded to the persuasive influence of a large circle 
of friends, who, perhaps not directly, but through the 
responsive force of her own outgoing sympathies, 
claimed many gifts of her poetiy. She wrote a score 
of pieces in the time that should have been devoted to 
one. In that way, doubtless, she dispensed pleasure to 
as many homes, but prodigality to others was injustice 
to herself. 

Moreover, she allowed much time to be absorbed by 
Society, which belonged to her own study. It should 
not be inferred that she frequented parties. She was 
averse to them in town, and had little opportunity in 
the country. But her father's house was rarely free 
from guests, and often overflowing, and claims were 
b 



XV111 SKETCH OF THE LIFE 

made upon her for entertainment which seemed at the 
time right and inevitable. The Ahasuerus of society 
' commanded to bring the golden and silver vessels ' 
from the temple of her Genius, and though consecrated 
to a higher purpose, they were brought and used. 

Much of her time, also, was consumed by household 
duties, and in the use of the needle, both for herself 
and in the multiplication of ingenious gifts for friends. 
In every department of housewifery, she executed with 
rare skill and rapidity. There seemed to be nothing 
within the scope of female ingenuity that she could not 
compass, and easy success stimulated to more endea- 
vors. Adaptation to time, place, and circumstance, 
not by quiet passiveness, but in the more difficult art 
of active participation, was a characteristic. Moreover, 
her father's house was ever open to the incoming of 
the invalid, and she spent many days and nights, of 
years, in the care of the sick, who preferred no claim 
except that of a common Humanity. This was most 
praiseworthy, but not in the path of her peculiar, and, 
as I cannot but esteem, highest vocation. By no means 
should she have isolated herself for the sake of poetry ; 
but with less profusion should she have lavished her 
time and energies on the many who claimed sympathy 
and care. And sad it is to know that these multiplied 
claims of friends, accumulated and concentrated at the 
last, wore away the vigor of her constitution, and the 
' golden bowl ' lay broken, while yet the costliest wine of 
life stood untasted. 



OF MARY M. CHASE. XIX 



CHAPTER III. 

RAPIDITY IN COMPOSITION CONSCIOUSNESS OF 

POWER. 

Mary Chase composed in poetical measure, as well 
as in prose, with remarkable facility. She attained 
well nigh to improvisation. She could write at any- 
time and in any place, surrounded either by chat or 
quiet. She wrote responsive to incidents, and replied 
at the moment in poetry to the voices of Nature, or to 
the warm words or gifts of friends. Her words formed 
themselves into verse with such easy naturalness as 
almost irresistibly to persuade from prose. The best 
of her simple lays, and indeed of the more highly 
wrought poetiy, were penned in the brief interludes of 
busy housewifery, and many were written to friends as 
the appendage to rapid letters. The poem entitled 
' Woman ' was composed in less than three days, for a 
special occasion, and more remarkable instances even 
than this might be mentioned. 

It will be observed from her letters that she was 
aware of her mental power. The soul's strength made 
itself felt to her self-consciousness, as I am confident 
it does sooner or later to all gifted ones ; and I regard 
with no questioning, rather with respect, the unfettered 



XX SKETCH OF THE LIFE 

way in which she writes of herself, so far removed 
from all the littleness of assumed humility. Yet this 
self-knowledge did not produce pride or vanity. In- 
deed, she was too true a woman to regard intellectual 
ability as the highest ambition. Affection was more 
precious to her than admiration. The letter, in which 
she reproaches a friend for having spoken of her as 
a genius, in a mingled strain of raillery and of almost 
passionate appeal, beautifully reveals her ' feminin- 
ity.' 

She never wrote for fame, or personal aggrandize- 
ment. She regarded her powers as ' lent on usury for 
Heaven ; ' and the truth, ' For unto whomsoever much 
is given, of him shall be much required,' often pressed 
with almost crushing weight upon her heart. She com- 
bined, in happy union, a sincere humility with a sense 
of power, which gave her a self-possession, a courage, 
a feeling of equality to any achievement and of supe- 
riority to every emergency, imparting decision to her 
plans and firmness to her purposes. Yet her standard 
was kept far above her accomplishment, and tearful 
sorrow for short-comings was more habitual than sat- 
isfaction in success. I have ventured to publish a let- 
ter, which unveils the secret working of her mind with 
regard to itself, in the confidence that it will meet a 
response in many an appreciative mind. This and the 
letter referred to above appear at the close of the 
Series. 



OF MARY M. CHASE. XXI 



CHAPTER IV. 

HUMOR CONVERSATION PRACTICAL CHRISTIANITY. 

Mary's letters better represent her gift of humor 
than her poetry, yet not fully, for one is apt to suspect 
premeditation on paper ; but in her conversation no 
one could entertain an idea of preparation. She was 
regarded by all as unsurpassed in the variety, the 
enlivenment, the alternating light and shade of her 
fireside conversings. The little things of every-day 
life, unnoticeable by the ordinary eye, served as the 
occasions of the daintiest descriptions and the happiest 
hits, yet without exaggeration or distortion. Her mem- 
ory received like wax and retained like iron, and thus 
the anecdotes and facts she had heard came to the 
surface at the right moment with charming readiness, 
to serve for illustration or instruction. Past conversa- 
tions were to her like stereotyped pages, which she 
could re-produce at any time, and she retained the 
idiosyncracies of another's language and intonation 
with extraordinary accuracy. She could repeat every 
poem she ever wrote, and much of what she had read 
of others' productions, and thus her quotations and 
allusions were frequent and happy. 

She allowed no unkind sarcasms on misfortune ; but 



XX11 SKETCH OF THE LIFE 

to assumption, or vanity, or sham of any kind, she was 
merciless. Yet she knew ' that honorable stop, not to 
outsport discretion.' Indeed, her mind inclined natu- 
rally to the Earnest in life. She recognised the True 
everywhere, and adopted it, while all that was fraudu- 
lent in society, or unsound in character, or affected in 
manner, was offensive to her. 

This union of humor with seriousness is by some 
esteemed rare ; by some, impossible ; and by others, 
inconsistent ; yet a careful analysis and observation 
will show each of these notions to be incorrect. The 
universal fact will appear, that in those strong religious 
characters, whose moral power controls the circle in 
which they move, whether compressed within a neigh- 
borhood, or embracing a continent, the appreciation of 
humor, and oftentimes the genius for it, is exquisite. 
Indeed, a foundation of earnestness seems essential to 
the development of the highest form of humor, as the 
most delicate carving can be wrought out of only the 
solidest wood. The character is not complete in which 
either department exists alone or in undue proportion ; 
and hence care has been taken, in the selection of 
Maiy Chase's letters for publication, to show the happy 
balance of her character in this respect. Rightly re- 
garded, the mirth-provoking portions, instead of being 
incongruous with the deep religious tone of others, are 
an evidence of its genuineness, as fruit-bearing trees 
alone produce gay blossoms. 
In the social circle it was a necessity imposed, which 



OF MARY M. CHASE. XX111 

she bore gracefully, to fill a large space in conversa- 
tion. Others seemed ready to listen when she was 
speaking. Yet her talk did not discourage, but rather 
developed latent ideas in the minds of others. Her 
light resembled in effect that of the moon upon the 
diamond to elicit light, rather than on surrounding 
stars to pale their lustre ; and yet the lead of conversa- 
tion was her prerogative, which, adopting without 
asserting, with self-possessed animation, she would 
stand in the party or sit by the fireside, surrounded by 
a group of listeners wrought up to the happiest ex- 
citement. 

It was the use of this prerogative which may have 
prevented some from being at first favorably impressed. 
They may have esteemed her frank and brilliant, too 
soon after introduction ; and reflecting that it is 4 not 
yet the third hour of the day ' of our acquaintanceship, 
and ' we hear every one in his own tongue,' ascribed it 
to the ' new wine ' of unfeminine assurance. But I 
think this impression, if ever made, was never abiding. 
Longer acquaintance showed that her manner sprung 
from the inspiration of a true, trusting, sympathetic 
nature, too thoughtful of imparting happiness to be 
suspicious of criticism. 

Mary was blest in the power of adaptation to the 
mental grade and scope of those with whom she con- 
versed, and she used it without encroaching upon her 
own individuality or integrity. It was this facility, 



XXIV SKETCH OF THE LIFE 

coupled with appreciative sympathy, of which it was 
perhaps the fruit, that made her the welcome presence 
in all the farm-houses scattered among the hills about 
her home. 

The happiness and the good of those with whom she 
was associated or surrounded were ever superior in her 
view to personal comfort, and she sometimes sacrificed 
health in her devotion to friends. Wherever suffering 
and degradation existed, she turned unhesitatingly with 
means of relief. And not only did she minister to 
bodily necessities, but she was at the same time watch- 
ful of the needs of the spirit. She was in the habit of 
seeking and supplying the destitute with Bibles and 
religious books ; also striving, by unobtrusive yet 
timely counsel, to sow some seed of divine truth. 

When those words of blessed assurance shall be 
spoken by the King, ' For I was an hungered, and ye 
gave me meat ; I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink ; 
I was a stranger, and ye took me in ; naked, and ye 
clothed me ; I was sick, and ye visited me ; I was in 
prison, and ye came unto me ; ' then will rise up those 
of each suffering class, who will bear witness to her 
christian care, — yes, and the prisoner, too, will be 
there, with fast-falling tears, to tell the story of his 
temptation, his first crime, his desertion by friends, his 
despair ; when she alone sought him out with medicine 
for the body, and healing words, yet more precious, for 
the prostrate soul, and by her faithfulness he was healed 
and saved. 



OF MARY M. CHASE. XXV 



CHAPTER V 

COMBINATION OF INTELLECTUAL AND PRACTICAL 
GENIUS. 

The reader, by this time, can hardly fail to have 
noted the feature of Mary Chase's character, or rather 
the characterizing form in which it was moulded, which 
constituted its marked excellence. I mean the rare 
union of the executive and the practical with the sensi- 
tive and the poetical. Her writings illustrate the latter; 
the c daily beauty in her life ' evidenced the former. 
While so literary in taste and habit, she was as far 
removed from pedantry as any rosy-cheeked child. 
She was practical without being matter-of-fact, and 
poetical without being sentimental. She did not dwell 
in cloud-land or in dream-land, above or apart from the 
sympathies and duties of e very-day life. The pinion 
of her genius was strong, and at any time of choice, 
when the external might not claim attention, she could 
rise to the pure ether of thought and feeling. But the 
Real was not sacrificed to the Ideal ; indeed, as we 
have seen, it asserted an undue claim. But this was the 
result of circumstances beyond her control, and to 
which she yielded, not only with the apparent resigna- 



XXVI SKETCH OF THE LIFE 

tion which would satisfy the standard of most, but 
with the gladness of a hearty zeal. 

And these two distinct elements were not separated 
in daily doings. She was not wholly practical in the 
morning and exclusively poetical in the afternoon. 
She clothed work with such a cheerful light by her 
conversation, when employed with others, or by her 
own rich musings, when alone, that it was, so to speak, 
4 transfigured.' Could not much be done by all women 
thus to make the household yoke rest more lightly, and 
transform what is now a drudgery into a source of hap- 
piness ? 

It was this combination of two elements generally 
esteemed incompatible, which forms the most note- 
worthy point of her character and life, more remark- 
able than either her poetical or practical genius regard- 
ed separately. Hence it resulted that her scope of 
objects and interests was unusually wide, and her 
sources of enjoyment and occupation were ever accu- 
mulated far beyond the power even of her rapid 
industry to exhaust. When prostrated by sickness, 
while teaching in Brooklyn, her spirit drooped some- 
what under the iron chain of bodily inactivity ; but it 
was not long ere the great lesson of submission was 
learnt, and it rose again with a buoyancy that disease 
could not wither. 



OF MARY M. CHASE. XXV11 



CHAPTER VI. 

BIOGRAPHY. 

A brief biographical record of Mary Chase will not 
be inappropriate, although many incidents are por- 
trayed in her letters with an accuracy and vigor 
which another could not attain. 

She was born at her father's house in Chatham, 
Columbia County, New York, on the twelfth of Au- 
gust, 1822. Most of her early life was passed at 
home until she entered an advanced class in the Al- 
bany Female Academy in September, 1843, where 
she spent one year, and was graduated with the honor 
of the gold medal for Composition. 

Her intellectual tastes developed very early, and 
her abounding love of Nature seemed born with her. 
Her insight into the mysteries of that life of beauty, 
with which the Creator has surrounded us, was clear 
and deep, and the bond of union close and confiding. 
She had, what Carlyle styles as ' Nature's choicest 
gift, an open eye and heart.' 

The education of her parents was calculated to de- 
velop her mind in these directions. Her father writes 
as follows in a letter to a friend : — 

4 Having from early youth been a fervent admirer 



XXVlil SKETCH OF THE LIFE 

of the Holy Scriptures, as also of the glories and beau- 
ties of the material creation, I was always desirous 
that my children's minds should be imbued with the 
same feeling, as it has constituted one of the chief 
enjoyments of my life ; and for that purpose I em- 
braced all the opportunities afforded me, from the 
pressing engagements of business, to point out these 
to them, and to impress on their minds the truth, that 
these were the works of an Almighty Power, whose 
glorious attributes they could in time more easily com- 
prehend. As Mary was my youngest, I had more 
opportunity to take her out with me into the fields 
and woods, from whence she could see the wide- 
spread landscape stretching far away to the blue hori- 
zon, dotted with villages and farm-houses, cleared 
fields teeming with their cereal burden, lofty hills 
whose tops were crowned with waving forests, and 
streams silently wending their way through the grassy 
meadows, or dashing down in roaring torrents from 
some mountain height. From these two sources she 
caught that inspiration which afterwards flowed in 
such graceful numbers from her prolific pen, and from 
hence she drew much of that beautiful imagery and 
those noble conceptions with which her writings so 
abound. 1 

Mary's mother was one of those women who, never 
favored with what some esteem the essential advantages 
of town culture and the range of libraries, seemed 
gifted, direct from the lavish hand of Nature, with the 



01* MARY M. CHASE. XXIX 

refined tastes, exquisite appreciations, and lofty as- 
pirings which finished education in literature and art 
claims as its exclusive privilege. 

She was a woman of beautiful expression and com- 
manding presence, and of a manner uniting gentleness 
with dignity, which invested her with a serene attrac- 
tiveness. Mary thus pictures her mother's love of 
flowers : 

1 Sweet mother ! how precious to her were the com- 
monest flowers ! One pleasant June morning I joined 
the family circle at breakfast, for the first time in 
months ; how had our invalid mother's hand decorated 
the table ! A branch of blossomed sweet-brier lay by 
each plate, gemmed with dew. She had plucked them 
herself, walking falteringly, and leaning on her staff*. 
Her love of flowers never left her. All the summer 
long you might see every day some fragrant pink, or 
rose, or lily, nestled among the snowy folds of her 
kerchief, and her table never lacked a glass filled with 
the fairest that the garden and grove produced. Oh ! 
sweet mother ! they tell us that in " the land which no 
mortal may know," all former envies and affections are 
forgotten, that " the maid thinks not of her lover there, 
or the mother of her child," but I long to know whether 
among all thy old beautiful loves, this one does not 
remain.' 

The system of family education was somewhat pe- 
culiar. Punishment was rarely employed to secure 
obedience, yet a controlling influence was pervading 



XXX SKETCH OF THE LIFE 

like the air. Its principle was the power of love, 
untiring in its manifestations, and its appeals were to 
the conscience of the child ; while the love of Christ, 
and the all-seeing presence of God, were made living 
realities. Encouragement and approval for well-doing 
were preferred to reproof and blows for ill-doing. The 
training of Mary was culture, and its fostering influence 
developed individuality. 

Mary's poetical genius was early manifested. When 
she was eight years old, her teacher, residing in the 
family, discovered one of her poems on 4 The Three 
Days' Revolution in France,' which he deemed extra- 
ordinary, and with a pardonable zeal sent it to a city 
newspaper. When a copy came back, she detected 
her production in the i poet's corner,' flushed deeply, 
and burst into tears. For years after it was impossible 
to get a sight at her compositions, although she wrote 
much ; and this early piece cannot be found. 

The year at the Academy was a happy and profita- 
ble one. Her progress was striking, and her success 
even beyond the warm anticipations of her friends. 
During the years after graduation she spent much 
time with relatives in Albany, and through 1846 was 
pleasantly associated with a valued friend in the edit- 
ing of the * Monthly Rose,' a periodical published in 
connection with the Academy, for which she wrote 
much and well. From this time onward she published 
occasional articles of prose and poetry in leading mag- 
azines, which won attention and much commendation. 






OF MARY M. CHASE. XXXI 

Her published and unpublished prose writings would 
form a large and attractive volume. 

In 1845 she was awarded two gold medals by the 
'Association of the Alumnse ' of Albany Female Acad- 
emy, for a prize ' Poem ' entitled ' The Visions of a 
Night,' and a prize ' Moral Tale,' entitled i Life in the 
Country.' In 1846 she received a gold medal from 
the same society for a prize ' Essay ' on 4 Flowers.' 

During the summer of 1849 she made a collection 
of most of the flowers growing in this region, com- 
prising some three hundred varieties, put up with skill 
and taste in three portfolios, and accompanied with 
descriptions of each, arranged in an essay of fifty 
pages. These were sent to the ' World's Exhibition,' 
at London, and returned with gratifying testimonials. 

In May, 1846, she was prevailed upon to take 
charge of the Department of Composition in the Brook- 
lyn Female Academy, under the direction of Mr. Crit- 
tenden, her former Principal at Albany. Before the 
close of the following winter, she was attacked with 
hemorrhage of the lungs, induced by over-exertion in 
teaching, which suddenly interrupted her labors. In 
early spring she was taken home, and the summer 
was spent in means of restoration, which happily 
proved successful. But she did not resume her labors 
in the Academy, except during the summer of 1851, 
when she supplied a temporary vacancy in the same 
Department. 



XXx'l'l SKETCH OF THE LIFE 



CHAPTER VII. 



THE TEACHER- 



Of Mary Chase as the teacher, I had no opportunity 
of personal judgment, but the earnest words of pupils 
and associates, lead to the conviction that she left a 
most happy and abiding impression. She engaged in 
her work with an artist's enthusiasm, which inspired a 
responsive glow in her classes. In devising methods 
to stimulate mind, and elicit individuality of thought, she 
was ingenious and successful, and the tasks imposed 
were original and varied. She gathered selections of 
English literature from reviews and books, as means 
of forming correct style ; repeated selections from old 
ballads ; wrote poetry to illustrate particular forms of 
the Art ; brought into full use her remarkable knowl- 
edge of history; and delivered a series of lectures, 
which contain excellent criticisms and practical direc- 
tions for study and writing, combined with forcible 
appeals to the highest considerations, calculated to 
inspire effort and courage. The depth of her religious 
nature was fully manifested in her intercourse with her 
pupils. Her labors were never confined to their mere 
scholastic advancement ; a holier work was ever before 



OF MARY M. CHASE. XXX111 

her, as her heart went forth with strong affection to 
individuals of her charge ; it was her greatest joy to 
feel that she had been the means of leading more than 
one wanderer to Him who is the Light and the Life. 
Her pupils cannot read without emotion, the letter 
numbered XVI. 

The following is a brief extract from one of the 
lectures : ' In your writings keep close to the realities 
of life. Truth is stronger than fiction, and infinitely 
more lovely. Imagination is a priceless gift, yet, like 
the fire-spirit, it is a good servant but a bad master. 
It is enough for fancy if she be allowed to catch and 
hold up to the sun the crystal droppings of the robe of 
her who hideth at the bottom of a well, — pure, holy 

Truth ! It is not enough for you to place on 

my table an exquisitely tender and graceful essay on 
the Beautiful. You must note down its bearings on 
the great business of Life, and tell me of what use is 
this fine perception of Beauty Have a visi- 
ble aim in all your writings. You should think to the 
point, speak and act to the point, then write to the 
point When you go into the peaceful coun- 
try, and lie on the lap of Mother Earth under the forest 
trees, reflect that the moss beneath you is in every 
fibre a marvel, and no one can tell whence comes its 
seed, and that the tree against which you lean is the 
perfection of architecture, but none have seen the 
hand that fashioned its shaft and spread the vaulted 

arches of its boughs 

c 



XXXIV SKETCH OF THE LIFE 

c But one day more, and we shall part for this ses- 
sion. During my absence, I shall not cease to exert 
myself for you. Whatever I have of physical and 
mental energies I give to this work. Life is so very 
short, and there is so much to do ! Let us imitate 

those 

Who came from Chaldea's land 

A feeble few, 
To build with trembling hand 

Their halls anew. 

So with us should it be, 

While striving here, 
'Mid foes we cannot see, 

Our shrine to rear. 

Girt with a trusty sword, 

Should we build on ; 
Faith in God's holy word 

And His dear Son.' 

It remains to speak of the last days of Mary's life. 
It will be a satisfaction to her friends to peruse the 
record of this deeply interesting summer in the words 
of her loved companion-brother. And I would em- 
brace this opportunity of paying my heartfelt tribute 
to his devotion to a sister's idolized memory, mani- 
fested during these weeks of our companionship in the 
labor of revision and selection. 



OF MARY M. CHASE. XXXV 



CHAPTER VIII. 

LAST DAYS, AN ACCOUNT PREPARED BY C. THURSTON 

CHASE. 

Ever, as the remembrance of the closing scenes of 
Mary's life steals over me, I seem to approach her bed- 
side, and placing a kiss upon her cheek, take her hand 
in mine, and strive to allay the darting pain and soothe 
the quickened nerves ; — the sister, with whom my in- 
fancy was nursed, the companion of my childhood, the 
participator in all my youthful joys, who was dear 
to me as the light that awakes the shrouded earth to 
gladness. 

But the privilege I enjoyed of being a few weeks 
constantly by her, has tended to remove the sting of 
death, that seemed at one time fixed in my heart. I 
came when her energies were much exhausted ; she 
leaned upon me with the confiding trust of childhood ; 
she called me ' her strength ; ' and at the last, when 
failing hopes no longer sustained the circle of attached 
friends, she exhorted me to be calm and cheerful. 
1 Be strong,' she said, ' for I have now no other earthly 
strength.' Through the sunny days and long nights 
we talked together of the affairs of life and eternity 
with an earnestness and composure I cannot forget. 



XXXVI SKETCH OF THE LIFE 



As I recall our childhood, remembering how carefully 
she guarded against the many temptations of youth, 
and how trusting was her pure heart, I see that she 
early learned to love the God of the Universe, to con- 
fide in His promises, and to regard Him as an ever- 
present Deity. Although education cultivated her 
intellect and refined her taste, the silent inspiration 
of the field and forest was ever with her. She inves- 
tigated the deepest truths of religion with even more 
ardor than characterized her literary efforts. Her 
calm independence and earnestness of manner, united 
with her chastened language, told that there was a 
secret influence awakening her soul to the clearest per- 
ceptions of the beauties of the unseen as well as the 
visible world. The following remark, made to her 
father on the morning of her death, is appropriate 
in this connection : « Father, when I was a little fragile 
child, thee took me in thy arms and carried me out 
into the fields, and told me to look around and see 
what a good world God had made for little children ; 
and after that, I think I was not as before.' 

Mary was attached to the faith and mode of worship 
in which she had been educated, as expressed to her 
father on the day of her death. 'My father's people 
aiv my people, and his God my God.' Yet she was 
not the votary of any one religious sect. Her creed 
was as comprehensive as the Bible ; her leader, Christ. 
His abiding presence was the Light of her hope and the 
Strength of her confidence. Whether she listened to 



OF MARY M. CHASE. XXXvii 

the organ filling the vaulted roof, or sat in humble 
adoration among a band of silent worshippers, she 
sought that communion with the Saviour which alone 
can sanctify the spirit. The principles of Christianity 
were the light of her understanding, and the deep mys- 
teries of God were so revealed to her soul, that secta- 
rian differences appeared like barriers, shutting out one 
portion of true Christian life from intercourse with 
another; each sustaining, by its own exclusiveness, 
some portion of error. 

She often mentioned with regret that she had in- 
dulged in the common fault of sealing up so much of 
the deep workings of her heart. Though she had 
been accustomed to converse freely on religious sub- 
jects, yet she often said, ' Were I to live my life over 
again, I would be more outspoken in matters of the 
highest interest.' She felt that the time was steadily 
approaching when the masses would be more thorough- 
ly educated, and God electing from them, would pre- 
pare and qualify chosen instruments for His work. 

This is the 'royal priesthood' that the advancing 
spirit of the age demands. Then the bonds will be 
broken that suppress the fervent upwellings of the 
heart, and check the free expression of the noblest 
sentiments of our nature, till the glow of vital Chris- 
tianity is extinct, and individual action effectually 
crushed. But it should be understood that she had 
no sympathy with the extravagant illusions and fanati- 
cal notions that obtain. 



XXXVill SKETCH OF THE LIFE 



' The death-bed 's a revealer of the heart.' 






In the depth and perfection of her meditations upon 
the relations of the present to the future life she tri- 
umphed over the grave. Death was to her the fulfill- 
ment of life, not its failure. In her own expressive 
words, 

It is not new, it is not strange, 
This sudden, mystic, mighty change ; 
To gain our life, not lose our life, 
Is the grand end of all this strife. 

The light of her cheerfulness and pleasantry per- 
vaded her sick room. Every visitor was greeted with 
cordial words, and the grief of endeared friends and 
relatives assuaged by fitting consolations. She pos- 
sessed such a fountain of feeling and buoyancy of 
spirits, and there was always so much of life about 
her, that when we knew her strength was fast wasting, 
we could hardly realize that she must shortly die. 

Wouldst thou, the friend of my angel sister, come 
with me to her bedside, and receive, as it were, once 
more her welcoming smile, and hear some of the 
precious words from out the volumes that she spoke to 
us, traced indelibly upon our memories, as through 
those silent Indian Summer days, she awaited in the 
serenity of a triumphant faith, the slow, but sure 
approach of the Destroyer ? Thou wilt come with 
quiet step, not to disturb the peacefulness of her 
repose, and with happy look, not to shadow the 



OF MARY M. CHASE. XXXIX 

indwelling ' peace which passeth all understanding.* 
Thou wilt meet in her cheerful room the watchful 
sister, who rarely left her side by day, and through the 
many long nights held the wasting hand in hers, to 
waken when she roused, and anticipate her varied 
wants ; the loving niece, also, who while ministering 
to her, often soothed her restlessness by the soft 
music of sacred hymns, alluring a sleep as sweet as 
that of childhood when visited by angels ; the welcome 
brother, too, come from far, who in the hour of dark- 
ness and temptation knelt by her, and prayed the 
Father to sustain his child. 

Those playful boys have come in to speak with her, 
for whom she had designed, she said, ' to write good 
books, which might be a mother's guide to them in 
their orphanage, and help to lead them in the way of 
life.' The gay canary, by the window, will trill for 
thee his cheerful notes, wont to waken, before the 
morning dawned, the sparrows on the poplar to join 
his lay. This is the Bible that she gave our father. 
' The print is plain,' she said, ' and thee can read it 
when thy sight grows dim. Thee early taught me to 
love this book, and its teachings are my consolation 
now.' 

This tasteful volume, ' Light for the Aged,' in her 
own handwriting, contains a record of the pleasant 
thoughts she left for him to read, when passing down 
the dim declivity of life. 



x l SKETCH OF THE LIFE 

The Aged were her friends, — to them 

' Her looks 
Were like the cheerful smile of Spring, they said, 
Upon the "Winter of their age.' 

And she used to sit upon this cushioned stool, and 
looking up into their benignant eyes, talk with them of 
past experiences, and catch the glances that they had, 
by near approach, of their eternal home. 

It may be appropriate to insert here a letter of 
Mary's, just received from the intimate friend to whom 
it was written. 

My dear , 

After I left thee I had a hot ride, arriving at East 
Chatham excessively weary. As I left the cars the 
station keeper laid his hand on my shoulder, saying, 
4 1 've another sort of scene for you ; there lies a Hud- 
son car on the dead body of a child. His parents are 
at the other depot, you'd better go down there.' I felt 
sick at the words, but divesting myself of my shawl, 
almost ran the quarter of a mile intervening. I arrived 
trembling and faint ; a crowd of people were there. 
The parents sat in the parlor among the loud talking 
of excited company, who could not, or dared not ap- 
proach them with consolation or assistance. The child 
was down at the track ; it was half an hour since the 
accident, and neither had shed a tear. I looked at the 
scene in dismay, but felt that my duty was clear. I 
stepped up to the shrieking mother, laid my hand 



OF MARY M. CHASE. xli 

upon the poor woman's head, and spoke out clearly 
and slowly, ' Mother ! the Lord giveth, and the Lord 
taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord ! ' She 
screamed, ' I had forgotten my God ! God forgive 
me ! ' And in an instant the tears were flowing like 
rain down from the eyes of each. ' That 's right,' said 
a coarse, but compassionate woman, ' I always like to 
see folks cry smartly when they're in trouble. It 
does 'em more good than anything else.' The crowd 
looked on, wondering what I would do. I did what 
you would have done, drew the young mother to my 
bosom, kissed her, made her feel that she was not 
wholly alone ; sent for a physician to bring some 
restorative for her, though she was not hurt, but over- 
come with nervous convulsions, sent for my brother, 
obtained another room for her with a bed, prevailed 
on the mother to be partially undressed, and got 
water to bathe her head ; the husband, meanwhile, 
pouring out mingled groans and entreaties to his 
wife to be calm, and thanks to me. I then spied 
blood on the father's linen overcoat. Dreading lest his 
wife should see it, I beckoned him out, took the coat 
away, and washed the terrible stain. I soon discovered 
more blood on his arm, and it was at last found that 
he was severely hurt in the shoulder, which was bleed- 
ing profusely. Just then the mother caught sight of A. 
carrying a coffin, and sprang up in the wildest frenzy, 
tearing her hair, striking herself, the wall, the furni- 
ture ; the husband was greatly affected, and tried in 



Xlii SKETCH OF THE LIFE 

vain to hold her. At length I summoned all my reso- 
lution, with a prayer for strength, and kneeling at the 
bed's foot as calmly as I could, prayed aloud : 4 Fa- 
ther in heaven, tender and merciful, who didst give 
thine only Son to die a lingering and tormenting death 
for us, I entreat thee to have compassion on these, thy 
suffering children, in their dark hour. Manifest Thyself, 
I implore thee, unto them as a Comforter and Healer of 
souls. Make these, my brother and sister through 
sorrow, to know that their precious darling is even at 
this veiy moment resting upon thy Divine bosom. 
Let thy presence fill this chamber of mourning. Be 
a friend to the friendless mourners, a physician to the 
broken-hearted, a shaft which shall not be broken, on 
which they may lean. Come, dear Father, who can- 
not be separated from the afflicted by distance or time, 
and gather them to thy breast with a strong upholding 
arm, and bear their burden of grief for them, and 
assure their souls that this sudden and awful parting is 
not forever, but that their child lives, and they will 
assuredly go to him, if they bide thy good time, and 
meet him where tears shall be wiped from all eyes.' 
The voice of prayer accomplished what that of affec- 
tion could not, and from that time they grew calmer. 
I thought of remaining until they left, but A. was 
alarmed at my paleness, and hurried me away. Tell 

me, dear , was I in the path of my duty ? Like 

the bereaved parents in Marion's Pilgrimage, the word 
1 mother, to her sad heart found way.' I was almost 



OF MARY M. CHASE. xliii 

appalled at the idea of supplicating Heaven for them 
with my lips, which a moment before had been trifling 
with gay jests. I thought when the mother was lying 
in my arms, wringing her hands, and calling frantically 
for death, what was I, the plaything and mirth-maker 
of my friends, to become the comforter and stay of 
these afflicted ones. What a contrast to the scenes of 
the morning. Truly, Father, Thy ways are inscruta- 
ble ! We may thwart Thy purposes, but Thou will 
still make of us Thy instruments, though unworthy. 
May we become hallowed by the using ! 

About two weeks before her death, Mary asked me 
to tell her plainly what I thought of her recovery, and 
perceiving by my reply that I was less hopeful than I 
had been, she made numerous suggestions which she 
wished carried out, but closed by saying, ' Father may 
alter them at his pleasure, I want him to ; ' and then 
added, ' I have reviewed my past life with great 
care, since I have been confined here, and have felt, 
as in former sicknesses, that I was in my Maker's 
hands, and have tried to be ready. There is yet much 
I had intended to do, — many plans to perfect and exe- 
cute for the good of others ; but I feel that the imper- 
fect life ' that I have lived shall be perfected, and all 
I have ever learned will yet be called in action ; and 
all the good I have ever known, will not be quiescent, 
in the glorious world to which I am going.' 

On one occasion, turning to her mourning friends, 



xliv SKETCH OF THE LIFE 

she said, ' Do not grieve for me, remember the Sun of 
Righteousness shall arise with healing in his wings, 
and I shall only pass to everlasting bliss. Then shall 
be perfected the gifts God has given me, and which 
I have striven somewhat to improve.' 

After conversing freely with her sisters on house- 
hold affairs, and making many pertinent suggestions 
within a week of her death, she said to them, 4 It may 
seem strange to you, that, at such an hour, I interest 
myself in these matters ; but you will miss me when I 
am gone, and I feel it my duty to assist you, by my 
counsel, while I stay ; for my work is all done.' 

When speaking of the wrongs she had sometimes 
suffered, she would thus express herself: ' They were 
not much, when 1 thought of the end of all things, and 
the tears they brought were healthful. I forgive, — 
when I forgive, I feel that I am forgiven.' 

After reading aloud, at her request, a favorite chap- 
ter from c Holy Dying,' as the morning light was 
dawning, on the day of her death, the third of eleventh 
month, 1852, she referred me to her pencilings upon 
the margin of the book. These were among them : 

4 Oh, Immortality ! if the sages of old, in the dim 
light of nature, beheld thee afar off; if, out of the 
agonizing necessities of their hearts, there rose up a 
piercing cry for Life Eternal ; if their mighty souls 
were sustained by the faith of an Hereafter, which 
neither priest nor book had taught them, — shall not I 
hold fast my hope in Thee, live for Thee, die to 
Thee ? ' 



OF MARY M. CHASE. xlv 

1 Though sometimes bowed in sorrow, I have striven 
to go rejoicing on my way. I serve the Father best 
when I am glad. 

' I do not fear to die ! 
Through the dark valley of the shades of death 
I've passed already, with convulsive breath 

Of agony. 

« Oh, soul ! thy faith hold fast ! 
Let friendship wither, and let love depart ; 
But this strong anchor of the shipwrecked heart 

Shall save at last.' 

'I have gazed o'er the grave at the glorious portals, 
Light-streaming, song-thrilling, which opened afar, 

And I felt that, to enter that land of immortals 
Was worth all life's struggles and losses and war.' 

About nine o'clock in the morning she requested the 
family, friends, and domestics to be called in, that she 
might take leave of them. ' For,' she added,' « 1 have 
endeavored to be prepared for every emergency in life, 
and I would have nothing to do, but to follow, when 
the good Master calls.' In that holy hour were many 
absent friends brought to remembrance, and parting 
words of tenderness left for them. 

Feeling much exhausted, and being sensible that 
the close of life was near, she spoke to the family 
physician : ' Doctor, take my pulse and tell me how 
long thee thinks I will live. One hour ? two hours ? 
how long ? ' ' You may live several hours,' was the 



Xlvi SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF MARY M. CHASE. 

reply. ' I will try to wait patiently the Lord's coming, 
but now I long to be with my Heavenly Father. Do 
not think, doctor, that I do not consider this a beautiful 
world ; it is a glorious world. It is a world of God's 
own making, and He pronounced it good, and every 
tree that beareth good fruit will be transplanted into 
His own Heavenly Kingdom. Thee knows, doctor, 
what I mean. All who love God, and work righteous- 
ness, shall be accepted of Him.' 

As her breath grew feebler, and her voice became 
low and tremulous, she beckoned for a sister's ear, and 
whispered in it, ' I cannot bid father — farewell ; my 
love — for him is so strong, — I fear my trust — in my 
Heavenly Father — might be momentarily — shaken. 
Bid him farewell — for me. Give him — a parting 
kiss.' 

Then, before the full-fledged pinion of her youth 
was wearied, or her clear eye dimmed, Mary exclaimed 
in full tones of assurance and almost triumphant exul- 
tation, 

4 Father ! my feet are established on the Rock of 
Ages ! ' 

And as the prospect of Infinite Beatitude unfolded to 
her view, she uttered her last words, 'Lord Jesus! 
Come ! ' 

Two days after, we laid her remains under the old 
arm tree, near her home, consonant with her request, 
and inscribed upon the head-stone, Mary's Grave. 



POETEY. 



THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

Lo ! the blessed Indian Summer visiteth the 

earth once more, 
Spreads her violet-tinted pinions all the golden 

landscape o'er, 

Shutting out the golden heavens, that have 

blazed above our eyes, 
Like the flaming sword that guarded once the 

gates of Paradise, 
1 



2 THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

Came the Spring, with flying footstep, up the 

darkly wooded hill, 
Wakening with a thrilling whisper all the echoes 

sleeping still, — 

Wakening with a thrilling whisper echoes slum- 
bering in the heart, 

With a sudden palpitation and a trembling, 
causeless start. 

Came the Summer, like a Victor, on a car of 

glory borne, 
With a thunder-roll at even and a clarion-blast 

at morn, 

And a wild illumination, lighting up the living 

air, 
Till our temples throbbed with fever, and we 

fainted 'neath its glare. 



« 



THE INDIAN SUMMER. 6 

Then the Indian Summer floated toward us 
from the spirit shore, 

Stoled in trailing azure vestments, such as Gre- 
cian mourners wore ; 

On her lip one shadowy finger, and a censer in 

her hand, 
Whence a wreathing cloud of incense rose, and 

curtained all the land. 

Oh, thou quiet Indian Summer! brooding over 

stream and hill, 
I would thank thee for thy mission, bidding all 

the earth be still ; 

In thy hush the Autumn flowers stand together 

pale and mild, 
Helianthus in the hedgerows, purple aster in the 

wild. 



4 THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

And the busy, bustling creatures that amid the 
greenwood be, 

The brown marmot in the bushes, and the squir- 
rel on the tree, 

Silent, gather in their harvests, and no more 
upon the wind 

Comes the whistling and the singing of the soul- 
less feathered kind. 

They have satisfied their being, and they ask for 
nothing more ; 

But the restless, wayward spirit turns its memo- 
ries o'er and o'er, 

Self-accusing, self-condemning, in its human dis- 
content, 

For the early Spring-time wasted, for the Sum- 
mer days misspent. 



THE INDIAN SUMMER. O 

Lo ! the earth hath grown repentant, and amid 

the holy calm 
Goeth up her Miserere, her low, penitential 

psalm ; 

And with ashes on her forehead, where the roses 
lately pressed, 

Hears the mass for the departed, whom she cher- 
ished on her breast. 

I am standing in the forest — in the sunny forest 

glade ; 
All around the drooping branches cast a steady, 

moveless shade ; 

Far beneath the dim wood-arches the eternal 

shadows sleep, 
Only o'er this little hillock doth the quiet sun- 

beams creep. 



6 THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

Earth ! a loving, world-worn daughter comes, to 

lie upon thy knee, 
Mother Earth, alas ! there is none other now to 

cherish me ; 

I am lost and I am lonely, like a birdling from 

its nest ; 
Back I come, with failing pinion, — silent 

Mother, let me rest ! 

Lo ! thy cheek is cool and pulseless, — here, 
beneath the violet sky 

That seems stooping to embrace me, it is happi- 
ness to lie : 

How the low winds softly murmur out their pity 
as they pass 

O'er this lovely woodland hillock, toying with 
its vines and grass. 



THE INDIAN SUMMER. 7 

Yonder tall fantastic chestnut — how I watched 

it long ago, 
When into those uncouth figures its long arms 

began to grow ; 

Thence I brought my moss and pebbles, and 
beneath this old oak's shade, 

With a store of burnished acorns childish Babel- 
structures made. 

Gazed with wonder at the heavens, traced with 

curious eye the cloud, 
Heard the strange prolonged vibration of the 

pine-tree swelling loud, 

Till I dropt my pretty mosses, and stood up with 

awe to hear 
The invisible musician pealing out his anthem 

near. 



8 



THE INDIAN SUMMER. 



Then I came with classic pages, heavy tomes 

for childish hands, 
Read them here with wild romances from his 

toric eastern lands, 

Till Dodona's sacred voices seemed to people all 

the wood ; 
Piping Fawns and Hamadryads in the shadows 

round me stood. 

Oft I came with bounding footsteps that befitted 

happy years, 
Came with mirth, but stayed in sadness, came 

with laughter, left in tears, — 

For a sudden inspiration trembled on my pallid 

lips, 
And before me stood revealed Nature's great 

Apocalypse. 



THE INDIAN SUMMER. 9 

The unheard found solemn utterance, the invisi- 
ble was seen, 

And a hundred radiant pinions flashed the an- 
cient trees between ; 

In that hour all former memories left the spirit 

undefiled, 
And a temple was the forest, and a priestess 

was the child. 

Thus my youthful soul was nourished, and the 

forest, day by day, 
With the beckoning of its branches called me to 

its depths away ; 

Now with bowed and languid spirit back I come 

from fruitless quest, 
I have loved and I have trusted — silent Mother, 

let me rest. 



10 THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

Heavy head and throbbing bosom, burning 
cheek and shadowed eye, 

Nature's balm shall be your healing while with- 
in this wood I lie. 

Down amid yon sheltered dingle what a saintly 
silence sleeps, 

Sweetly through the bending branches the undy- 
ing music sweeps. 

But the heavy shadows deepen, while around 

the towering pines, 
Wreathing mist from off the meadows slowly 

creeping up entwines, 

And the evening wind arises, sweeping through 

the arches dim, 
With a solemn intonation sounding forth its 

mighty hymn. 



THE INDIAN SUMMER 11 

Voices call me at the sunset, silvery murmurs 

come and go, 
Through the crimson clouds of even flickering 

faces on me glow, 

Strange mysterious echoes answer, memories 

haunt me like a dream, 
And like unsubstantial visions real words and 

actions seem. 

Still I linger — silent Mother! on thy lap I yet 

must lie, 
Till the lamps that watch thy slumber are all 

lighted in the sky, 

Till the gems thou nightly wearest glisten on 

thy holy breast — 

I have loved and I have trusted — Goddess 

Mother, let me rest ! 



FLORAL. 



HOW SHALL I THINK OF THEE ? 

How shall I think of thee ? 

And which of these, thy flowers, 
Shall be the token meet, 
To bring remembrance sweet 

Of thee, in coming hours ? 

Not by the Vervain's lip 

Of velvet, and its hue 
Of scarlet, colors gay 
That shine then pass away, 

Shall I bring thee to view. 

Not by Geranium tall, 

Of fifty odors proud, 
Stolen from rose and balm, — 
Listening with haughty calm 

The praises of the crowd. 



16 HOW SHALL I THINK OF THEE? 

The Trefoil, full of grace, 

Bending with lightsome touch, 
Iberia's tuft of snow, 
The Violet's purple glow, — 
I '11 think of thee by suchi 

By Gillia's vase of pearl, 

By all that nameless band. 
Of tiny cups and bells, 
Which of thy goodness tells, 
"While there they stand. 

Yes — by all lovely things 
That I possess or see, — - 
By sunshine and perfume, — 
By Summer's lavish bloom, — 
Will I remember thee. 



17 



SOUTHERNWOOD. 

Sweet flowers to-day were given me, the lily 

and the rose, 
The violet and the mignionette, the sweetest 

flower that blows ; 

But for one tuft of green the midst, I prized it 

all the more, — 
A branch from that low fragrant shrub that 

grows beside our door. 



18 SOUTHERNWOOD. 

I used to pluck it oft for her, the mother of my 

youth, 
She said it was an emblem of God's undying 

Truth : 

For when the other plants were sere, then flour- 
ished all the more, 

That lowly shrub of Southernwood that bloomed 
beside our door. 

'Twas in the early days of Spring the grass 

began to rise, 
The pale Veronicas looked up with their blue 

saintly eyes ; 

I went among the woods for flowers, I sought 

the meadows o'er, 
Nor thought of that sweet Southernwood that 

grows beside our door. 



SOUTHERNWOOD. 19 

From straying long through wood and field I 

slowly homeward drew, 
My mother's bended form I spied, her locks of 

silvery hue ; 

With faltering step she slowly walked, and in 

her hand she bore 
A fragrant branch of Southernwood that grows 

beside our door. 

From that warm eve she never felt again the 

blessed sun ; 
Three mournful days we watched her pulse till 

its last beat was done, — 

And for her sake, I now shall prize a thousand 

times the more, 
That lowly shrub of Southernwood that grows 

beside our door. 



20 



A FEW GREEN LEAVES. 

A few green leaves ! the last sad remnant of 
The gorgeous Summer's gay and glittering show ! 
A few green leaves — they 're all stern Winter 

grants : 
Yet these are fragrant, and they speak as well 
To the observing mind of nature's God, 
As the more glowing tints of rainbow flowers : 
Then take them kindly, take them with the love 
Of one who fain had made them gold and pearl. 



21 



WITH A BOUQUET. 

Go ! humble little blossoms, 

To one I love full well, 
And of all pleasant things, 
Such as the wild bird sings, 
Unto her spirit tell 

Ye little starry flowers, 
Which on a far-off shore 

Have raised your modest heads 

Above the garden beds, 

Bid her be glad once more ! 



22 



FRAZER'S TREE. 

Green wave thy boughs above the pleasant 

meadow, 

Soft the wind whispers through the trembling 

leaves, 

The grass untrampled grows beneath thy shadow, 

And yonder slope displays the harvest sheaves. 

Not thus that day when with prolonged vibration 
The hills gave echo to the cannon's roar, 

As the great heart of the long outraged nation 
Burst with its throbbings the iron bands it 
wore. 



frazer's tree. ^3 

As well the reed might stem the mountain tor- 
rent, 

As well the rush hedge in the panther strong, 
As well the leaf might turn the ocean current, 

As England clasp again the chain of wrong. 

Woe, for the true men with the recreant blended! 

No time was there for charity of choice ; 
In one vast storm the hail of death descended, 

And pity wept not, mercy found no voice. 

Prone at thy base, among the sorely wounded 
That lay unconscious of the battle's yell, 

By faces steeled to deadly work surrounded, 
A shining mark, the gallant Frazer fell! 

Although enrolled among the hated foemen, 
His name shone ever as a pure, bright star, 

And sorrow moved those stern and rugged yeo- 
men, 
That such should be the cruel hap of war. 



24 frazer's tree. 

Wave on, green tree ! above the field of slaugh- 
ter, 
Living memorial of the noble dead, 
The priceless blood that drenched thy roots like 
water, 
In that dread hour, was not all vainly shed. 

For Freedom's light from that dark moment 
dawning, 
Will yet in rich effulgence bathe the world ; 
When Freedom's champions, in that glorious 
morning, 
Will hail in every clime its flag unfurled 



25 



TRAILING ARBUTUS. 

A strange guest in the city, 

Thou of the silent wood, 
I look on thee with pity, 

Far from thy solitude ; 
For I, a woodland ranger, 

May feel for hap like thine, 
Like thee, a lonely stranger, 

Forest vine. 

We pine for the small bird's singing 

That went up every morn, 
A daily blessing bringing 

To the woods where thou wast born ; 



26 TRAILING ARBUTUS. 

The drifted snow is lying 

On that mossy bed of thine, 
And there 's a voice of sighing, 
Forest vine. 



Thou hast seen the tempest gather 

Upon the beetling rock, 
And earth and skies together 

Grow dark before the shock, 
But in thy prison dwelling 

There comes no tempest sign, 
Though wild woods round are swelling, 
Forest vine. 



We have seen the lightning shiver 

The storm defying oak, 
ind the greenwood monarchs quiver 

As they dared the deadly stroke ; 



TRAILING ARBUTUS. 27 

No more of nature's glory 

We see in her high shrine, 
Ours is a short, sad story, 

Forest vine. 



We pine for the blessed coming 
Of sunshine and of dew — 

The wild bee's restless humming, 
The Summer harvest through : 

We pine for the tearless morrow 
That blest thy hope and mine, 

'Tis darkened now with sorrow, 
Forest vine. 



And since we took our pleasure 
Once 'mid the trees and flowers, 

We prize no other treasure, 
No other joy is ours ; 



28 TRAILING ARBUTUS. 

Oh, for the forest-chancel! 

Oh, for the free sunshine ! 
Our bond of love to cancel, 

Forest vine. 

Not ours the fettered spirit 

That calmly brooks the chain ; 

We 're drooping to inherit 
A free, wild life again : 

But oh! in vain we've striven, 
In vain we withering pine, 

The bond may not be riven ! 
Forest vine. 



29 



THE AUTUMN VIOLET. 

In the far-off woods, where the wild winds dwell, 
Deep in the shade is a narrow dell ; 
Deep in the shade, with a rock wall wide, 
Mounting to heaven on either side, 
With mossy drapery hung. 



Sunshine ne'er fell on that curtain of green, 
Though fair as the verdure of Eden, I ween, 
And long slight fern leaves wave to and fro, 
As the mountain breezes come and go, 
Like elfin banners swung. 



30 THE AUTUMN VIOLET. 

Drop by drop, like a steady tread, 
From the thousand fissures overhead, 
Tiny fountains come plashing down 
On the pavement stones, and their mossy crowns 
Their perfect greenness keep. 



And the drooping boughs of the hemlocks sway 
Over the dell, by night and day ; 
There, never comes the Summer bird, 
The voice of music is never heard 
To break its holy sleep. 



There, when the Spring-time breezes blew, 
Blossomed a flower of delicate hue, 
A sweet, low Violet with tender leaves, 
Gemmed by the drops of the rocky eaves 
With fragrant scented breath. 



THE AUTUMN VIOLET. 31 

Other flowers, when the Summer passed, 
Shrivelled and danced on the sudden blast ; 
The spikenard leaned from the shadowed rift, 
With the weight of fruit it might not lift, 
But the Violet knew not death. 



There it blossomed — that maiden flower, — 
Holy and pure in its secret bower, 
And its faint young buds rose up in strength, 
While its trailing stem had a triple length, 
And a flush lay on its cheek. 



Saintly relic of vanished Spring, 
The golden rod was blossoming 
Over its head, and asters shook 
Their leaves in many a meadow nook, 

And the sparrow's song grew weak. 



32 THE AUTUMN VIOLET. 

For the Summer days were hastening by, 
The cardinal-flower and the dragon-fly 
Together flashed by the failing stream, 
And the cricket sang in the starlight gleam 
Its pretty harvest song. 



' T were idle to tell of the soft, low note 
That seemed from that eremite flower to float, 
Wordless, voiceless, but oh ! a strain 
The listener lingered to hear again 

With a painful yearning strong. 



She lingered, the listener, long and still. 
In that damp, cold seam of the ancient hill ; 
And never a sound her ear so filled, 
And never a lesson her soul so thrilled, 

As the lesson she learned that hour. 



THE AUTUMN VIOLET. 33 

She trembled and sorrowed, that hearts so few 
The wonderful speech of the forest knew, 
Then comforted, stole from the silent glen, 
Bringing with her to the haunts of men 
The memory of that flower. 



34 



YELLOW ROSES. 

Golden roses! royal roses! flaming in the fervid 

noon, 
Ye are precious gifts flung to us from the lavish 

lap of June ; 
Winds around you linger sighing, 'neath your 

branches we behold 
That the earth is wooed like Danae, in a shower 

of dropping gold. 

Thus in Summers long departed, your uprising, 

glorious band, 
Blossomed for a stately presence, clustered for a 

gentle hand ; 



YELLOW ROSES. 35 

I beheld her standing queenly, and your branches 

all around 
Did her homage, casting lowly their bright crowns 

upon the ground, 
And her soft, brown eyes with pleasure looked 

upon your sudden wealth — 
Hazel eyes of lustrous beauty, cheeks with flush 

of perfect health. 

Summers few were quickly numbered, and when 
now your blooming came, 

She that bore the stately presence stood among 
you not the same, 

For a rapid touch of silver had inlaid her chest- 
nut hair, 

And she walked, with heavy leaning on her staff, 
to breathe the air ; 

Yet there shone the same mild pleasure in her 
eyes, when she did fold 

In her plaited kerchiefs whiteness, your rich 
blossoms, as of old ; 



36 YELLOW ROSES. 

Ever bloomed ye at her birthday, and we learned 

to love you more 
Than the crowd of crimson roses clustering 

round our humble door. 

Once more hath that day dawned on us, but the 

staff is now laid by, 
And the kerchiefs folds are breaking, in the chest 

where it doth lie, 

And the silvered hair is mingling slowly with 

the common earth, 
Yet I feel my mother's presence on this morning 

of her birth, 
Calmly teaching, sanctifying, this too fervent 

heart of mine, 
And expelling vain excitements that despoil its 

heaven-lit shrine. 
Mother ! if I could forget thee through the whole 

year without thought, 



YELLOW ROSES. 



37 



By the blooming of thy roses would thy memory 

back be brought ; 
Were I grown so hard and cruel that I wept not 

for a year, 
I could not behold these blossoms with an eye 

that shed no tear. 



38 



THE FLOWER GIFT. 



There is a little maiden, 

Of modest mien and face, 
And often does she bring to me, 
A weary stranger though I be, 

Sweet flowers, with sweeter grace ; 



Roses and fresh geraniums, 

And snowy fever-few, 
And crimson tassel-flowers that blow 
On slender foot-stalks to and fro, 

And flowers of every hue ; 



THE FLOWER GIFT. 



39 



I see them in my chamber, 

I watch them till they fade : 
Oh ! many a blessed thought of home 
To me, hath with these blossoms come, 

And happy moments made ! 

Of my own rustic garden, 

The flowers I planted there, 
Sweet-smelling flowers, — the fragrant pea, 
The balm that tempts the honey-bee, 

From his w r ild fields of air. 

I bless that little maiden, 

With her eyes so bright and mild, 
And pray that she may never know 
An hour without a happy glow : 

She is a darling child. 



VISIONS OF A NIGHT 



VISIONS OF A NIGHT. 

From the unfathomed realm above, 

The holy stars looked down, 
Encircling the dark brow of night 

With an eternal crown. 
In their pure light the still earth lay, 

And wandering night winds made 
A pleasant music, as afar 

Amid the hush they strayed ; 
They woke wild echoes in the wood 

And by the gushing rills, 
And danced in very playfulness 

Upon the ancient hills. 
Lulled by their voice, upon her couch 

A weary sleeper lay, 
Forgetful of the changeful scenes 

That shared the busy day. 



44 VISIONS OF A NIGHT. 

She slept, but ever through her sleep 

The wind's soft murmur stole, 
And woke sweet dreams of life and light 

In the unslumbering soul. 
Rare visions of a glorious land 

Went ever sweeping by, 
And spirit dancers came and went, 

Like streamers through the sky. 
The veil that covers human sight 

Seemed parted to her view, 
And fragments of bright scenes within 

Were ever glancing through. 
She knew, although she slept, the hum 

Of insect life arose 
From grassy mead, from lily cup, 

From heart of blushing rose. 
She knew the shining stars had paled 

The moon's rich light before, 
Which clear and white as snow-flakes lay 

Upon the chamber floor. 



VISIONS OF A NIGHT. 45 

She felt the warm and balmy breath, 

Of Summer's incense flowers, 
Creep through her casement, sweeter far 

Than in the noon-tide hours. 
The sleeper's heart was filled with joy, 

And, as in childhood's day, 
From her closed eyes the tear-drops stole 

And on her pillow lay. 
And yet as 'twere another life 

Its sense had o'er her cast; 
She saw each burning form of light 

Flit like a meteor past. 
Again the mystic veil was closed, 

Dimmed was each glowing scene, 
And but the moonlight lay where those 

Angelic ones had been. 
The night sped on, the wind stole by, 

Then music rich and rare, 
Such as a zephyr never woke, 

Came floating through the air. 



46 VISIONS OF A NIGHT. 

It rose and fell as silvery soft 

As where the ocean-chime 
Goes from the choral-ledges up 

In some Pacific clime. 
It died away in cadence low, 

All, all around was still, 
The night wind crept with noiseless foot 

Along the dark-browed hill: 
And as it glided forth afar, 

Like lapsing waters slow, 
The spirit of the sleeper too 

Seemed thus with it to go. 
She saw the moonlight on the floor, 

She heard the cricket near, 
But 'twas not with the spirit-eye, 

Nor with the spirit-ear. 
For lo ! once more the veil was rent ; 

A burst of glory filled 
The quivering air, and music proud 

The shadowy drapery thrilled. 



VISIONS OF A NIGHT. 47 

Then came those glorious forms of light, 

Upborne on glancing wings, 
Enrobed with clouds of rose and gold, 

Such as the sunset brings. 
Bright garlands, gemmed with fadeless flowers, 

Decked every radiant head, 
And balmy as Arabia's groves, 

Their fragrant odors shed. 
Then over all the music swelled 

Till night's vast arches stirred, 
And with clasped hands and beating heart. 

The raptured sleeper heard. 

We came through the hours of night 
"With pinion and footstep free, 

Watching till dawn of light, 
Sleeper! for thee. 

Hushed is the sky above, 

Hushed is the earth and sea ; 



48 VISIONS OF A NIGHT. 

Yet breathing a song of love, 
Sleeper ! for thee. 

Hushed is the Summer rill, 

Hushed is the leaf-clothed tree ; 

Silent they rest and still, 
Sleeper ! for thee. 

Gleams of a world of bliss, 
Such as the soul may see, 

We bring through the gloom of this, 
Sleeper! for thee. 

Garlands of precious flowers, 
With us that blossomed be, 

We have culled in the midnight hours, 
Sleeper! for thee. 

Not as a vanished dream, 

Away with the dawn we flee ; 

We walk in the sunlight's gleam, 
Sleeper! for thee. 



VISIONS OF A NIGHT. 49 

Resteth the heart of fear ; 

Waketh the heart of glee ; 
Dried is the sorrowing tear, 

Sleeper! for thee. 

Thanks to the God above! 

Lord of the earth and sea ! 
For He sendeth a mission of love, 

Sleeper! to thee. 

The strain was hushed, the morning wind 

Across the low couch crept; 
And with a peal of melody 

Afar the pageant swept. 
The maiden woke to morning light, 

But through the live-long day 
Those heavenly visions of the night, 

Were by her side alway. 
The shades of evening came anon ; 

Again she sweetly slept; 
4 



50 VISIONS OF A NIGHT. 

Once more bright visions round her couch 

Their welcome vigils kept ; 
Again the angelic song went up, 

Now tremulous and low, 
Now wildly joyous as the sounds 

Of mountain waters' flow. 
Oh ! blessed is this life of ours, 

When unto us is given 
Throughout the day, throughout the night, 

To walk with forms from Heaven! 



SONGS. 



THE TRIUMPH OF SPRING. 

Sing a song, a song of triumph, 

For the advent of the Spring ; 
She hath quelled the mailed warriors 

Of the haughty Northern king : 
She hath burst his thousand strongholds, 

She hath set the captives free, 
And the shout of their rejoicing 

Bursteth forth from land and sea : 
How it shakes the hoary king in his retreating! 



54 THE TRIUMPH OF SPRING. 

Sing a song, a song of triumph, 
For the advent of the Spring ; 

She hath called the hills from slumber 
By the waving of her wing ; 

For the snow-wreaths of the valley- 
Rise the apple-blossoms white ; 

Creeps the grass along the meadow, 
Where the frost hath taken flight ; 
And the forest's heart responsively is beating. 

Oh the Forest ! the proud Forest ! 

How his mighty heart was shaken, 
When he felt his stately branches 

By the Winter winds o'ertaken ! 
How they moaned and tossed forever, 

Like a troubled midnight sea ! 
Sing a song, a song of triumph, 

For the Spring hath set them free, 
And the shrieking winds of Winter cower before 
her. 



THE TRIUMPH OF SPRING. 55 

Oh the Leaves, the Leaves of beauty ! 

They are starting from their night, — 
They are quickened into music, 

They are bursting into light ; 
Cold and dark as graves beneath them, 

They were locked in shadows deep : 
Sing a song, a song of triumph, 

That the Spring hath stirred their sleep, 
And the leafless boughs are wakened to adore her. 

Down the breezy wood-paths glisten 

Thousand starry living things, 
And the cloudless blue is shaded 

By the rush of coming wings ; 
For the birds have heard the summons, 

Over land and over sea ; 
They have come to swell the triumph 

With their songs of merry glee, — 
With their songs that leave no dark remembrance 
after. 



56 THE TRIUMPH OF SPRING. 

Down the hill-slope through the meadow, 

By the woodland in their play, 
Leap the bright unfettered waters 

On their green and winding way : 
Spring hath loosed them from their thraldom, 

She hath broken every chain ; 
And they look forth in their freedom 

To the heaven's light again : 
And the sunny greenwood ringeth with their 
laughter. 

Ah, the Dead ! we miss their voices 

From the glad triumphal strain ; 
And we seek them in the sunlight, 

But we find them not again : 
Little heed they that the waters 

Are awaking from their night; 
That the rich blue sky above us 

Is so joyous in its light; 
Or that Spring hath made the wild-wood places 
glorious. 



THE TRIUMPH OF SPRING. 57 

We are longing for their voices, 

For their music mid the flowers ; 
But they swell the song of rapture 

In a fairer clime than ours : 
They are on the nightless meadows, 

They are by the living springs, 
They are crowned with deathless beauty, 

They are conquerors and kings, 
And they triumph o'er the Grave and Death 
victorious ! 



58 



BIRTHDAY CAROL. 

Cousin dear, I bring thee 
Here a simple song — 

Fashioned for thy birthday, 
Neither proud, nor long. 

Just a heartfelt wishing, 
That this day may be, 

As a blessed omen 
Of thy life, to thee. 

Down thy coming future 
May the sunlight sweep, 

All along thy pathway 
May no shadows sleep. 



BIRTHDAY CAROL. 59 

Like the wind's wild blowing, 

Fetterless and free, 
May thy spirit's yearning 

Through life's journey be. 

Hoping is but idle, — 

Wishing is but vain, — 
Yet 'tis all I bring thee 

With my simple strain. 

And when wealth and honors 

Round thee proudly glow, 
Think that cousin Mary 

Wished it might be so. 



60 



CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

Blessed day ! happy day ! 
Welcome to the earth alway ! 
Brighter glow the eastern skies, 
Brighter glow the awakening eyes, 
And a heart-song riseth clear, 
Heard by listening spirit-ear, 
Welcoming the glorious morn 
When the Saviour babe was born. 

Blessed day ! happy day ! 
Welcome to the earth alway ! 
Saileth on the golden cloud, 
Ringeth childhood's laughter loud, 



CHRISTMAS CAROL. 61 

Mountain winds in silence sleeping, 
Mourning hearts a vigil keeping, 
All the heavens, all the earth, 
Soothing sorrow, waking mirth. 

Blessed day ! happy day ! 
Welcome to the earth alway ! 
Kindly word and pleasant greeting, 
Tearless parting, joyous meeting, 
Come to each and every one 
Whom thy bright sun looks upon, 
Welcoming the glorious morn 
When the Saviour babe was born. 



62 



THOU AND I. 

We have loved each other long, 

Thou and I, 
And our love has flowed along 
Like a pleasant murmuring song, 
Like a spring with no decay, 
As we travelled the same way ; 

Thou and I. 

We have watched each other's eyes, 

Thou and I, 
With full-brimming sympathies, 



THOU AND I. 63 

When the low dull clouds that rise 
In the Autumn of the soul, 
Gloomy draperies round it roll ; 
Thou and I. 

Each, the hand laid in the other's, 

Thou and I, 
Each, the other's care discovers, 
When a shadow o'er us hovers, 
Sharing pillow, book, and hearth, 
Sharing sorrow, sharing mirth ; 

Thou and I. 

How long shall our loving last ? 

Thou and I : 
Will there come no passion-blast 
Blight and death on it to cast ? 
Lip and eye by smile deserted ? 
Lip and eye for aye averted? 

Thou and I. 



64 THOU AND I. 

How long shall our loving be ? 

Thou and I. 
Thou, by wishing, swaying me, 
I, by striving, pleasing thee, — 
Oh ! like some deep, silent river, 
It shall flow forever, ever : 

Thou and I. 



65 



SONG FOR DECEMBER. 

The stars were everywhere, 

The wailing night-winds hushed, 
When through the cloven air 

A sudden pinion rushed ; 
<Ai! Ail' 

Came a wild and shrieking cry, 

' I return never ! ' 

The sleeper's dream of grace 

Was changed to nightmare fear, 
As through each silent place 



6b' SONG FOR DECEMBER. 

Rung out that echo clear ! 

<Ai! Ai! 
Pity me, passing by, 
I return never ! ' 

Loud creaked the untrod floors, 

The bolted shutters clashed, 
Back swung the latched doors, 

The night-lamp sudden flashed 
<Ai! Ai!' 

Was the sharp unearthly cry, 

( I return never ! ' 

Aroused, the mastiff good 

Upraised his shaggy head, 
And bayed in discord rude, 

As on the moaning sped : 
'Ai! Ai! 

To the fearful past I fly, 

I return never ! ' 



SONG FOR DECEMBER. 67 

All souls, that vigils kept, 

Of pleasure or of pain ; 
All souls, that peaceful slept, 

Heard the lamenting strain : 
<Ai! Ai! 

To the earth, to the sky, 

I return never ! ' 



68 



SISTER MINE. 

Sister mine, 
Is the low wind sighing 
A replying 
To each sphit-sigh of thine ; 
Weeping, 
Keeping 
A vigil while the star-light faint doth shine ? 

Or alone, 
Is a Spring-time gladness 
With the sadness, 



SISTER MINE. 69 

Hushed and covered all thine own ; 

Singing, 

Bringing 
A thrilling with the glory of its tone ? 

Cometh not 
Into thy heart a pleasure, 
With treasure 
Of precious thoughts this page of life to dot : 
Blessing, 
Caressing, 
Making on earth, at least, one sunny spot ? 

Heart of love ! 
When the near cloud, stooping 
With a drooping 
Of its wing, rains from above, — 
Fearless, 
Tearless, 
With unfurled pinion flies the trusting dove. 



70 SISTER MINE. 

So may'st thou, 
With the heart's fire burning, 
With a turning 
Of the eye all upward now, 
Singing, 
Springing, 
Soar aloft to heaven with cloudless brow. 



71 



THY LOVE. 

As light to the blossom, 
As sweets to the bee, 

As dew to the garden, 
Art thou, love, to me. 

There is night for the blossom, 
And frost for the bee, 

And snow for the garden, 
But none such for thee. 

Though darkened the blossom, 

And silent the bee, 
And buried the garden, — 

Thy love lives for me. 



72 



THE IDLE MAIDEN. 

I sat beside my window, my window by the sea, 
I watched how o'er the prancing waves the ships 

rode gallantly 
Far o'er the prancing waters, until they met the 

sky,— 

I thought upon my lover, I could not hush a sigh. 

Tel] me, ye white-winged vessels, swift speeding 

o'er the main, 
If lie I love still loves me, will he return again? 
Will he kiss me with true loving, and say, ' I live 

for thee ? ' 
But on the white-winged vessels swept, — - they 

never heeded me. 



THE IDLE MAIDEN. 73 

Tell me, thou soaring sea-bird, uprising to the 

blue, 
Where is my roving lover, and is he false or 

true ? 

And wears he on his finger the parting ring I 
gave? 

But down the soaring sea-bird plunged beneath 

the crested wave. 

Tell me, ye reinless chargers, whose trampling 

feet I hear, 
Ye ancient waves, — where is my love ? when 

will his step draw near ? 
When shall I lean upon his breast ? when shall 

I hold his hand ? 
But on the fiery chargers drove, and dashed 

along the strand. 

Oh ! white-winged ships and sea-birds ! oh ! azure 
war-steeds free ! 



74 THE IDLE MAIDEN. 

Well know I why ye hasten on, and give no 
word to me. 

Alas ! my lover 's faithless, his kisses are es- 
tranged, 

And on that hand I ne'er shall hold, — the part- 
ing ring is changed. 

I heard a sudden footstep, and back the curtain 

drew, 
A voice that I remembered well, my very soul 

thrilled through : 
'Ask thine own heart, sweet maiden, 'tis wiser 

than the sea, 
For here 's the hand, and here 's the ring, and 

here 's the kiss for thee ! ' 



75 



WHY I LOVE THEE. 

Dost thou ask me why I love thee ? 

Ask the sunbeam why it shines, 
Ask the blossom why it opens, 

Ask the woodbine why it twines : 

And the sunbeam will make answer ; 

' In the dark I cannot stay, 
When the morning winds are calling 

With the birds' sweet roundelay : ' 

And the blossom will make answer; 

' Still and lone I cannot dwell, 
Selfishly my odors nursing 

In their narrow, folded cell : ' 



76 WHY I LOVE THEE. 

And the woodbine will make answer ; 

' Ah ! I cannot live alone, 
So I lean upon the poplar, 

And his strength is now my own.' 



77 



TO FANNY. 

When I look into your shining eyes, 
And their sweet light discover, 

I say without the least disguise, 
I wish I were your lover ; 

Dearest Fanny, 
How oft I say it over ! 

I 'd touch those honey lips of yours 
As the enamored bee the clover ; 

I 'd worship you while life endures, 
And never be a rover ; 
Dearest Fanny, 
How oft I say it over ! 



78 TO FANNY. 

Like some ethereal shape of air, 

I 'd ever round you hover, 
And smooth your shining curls of hair 

Or with soft kisses cover ; 
Dearest Fanny, 

How oft I say it over ! 



79 



MY CASTLE BY THE RIVER. 

I have built a Castle, dearest ! 

All its wealth is mine and thine, 
And it stands where swiftest, clearest, 

Flows a River like the Rhine : 
Blue and shining in the sun, 
Ever flows the river on. 

And the Castle walls uprising, 

Gleam beneath the pleasant light ; 

Elfin bands each day devising 
Some new glory for the sight, 

Make its worth all earth above, 

For the Castle, — it is Love. 



80 MY CASTLE BY THE RIVER. 

And the River, swiftly flowing, 
Speeds its happy way along, 

By the Castle, proudly glowing, 
With a low, perpetual song, — 

Sweetest song in Earth's wide scope, 

For the River, — it is Hope. 

Doth my Castle please thee, dearest ? 

Wilt thou be content for aye ? 
There to dwell, where swiftest, clearest, 

Runs the River on its way ? 
For the Castle stands forever, 
And the Stream is wasted, never. 



CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE. 



CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE. 

[Written in 1850.] 

Uncle Sam is a bachelor of a very fine estate, 
Keeps his handsome house in Washington at a 

free and costly rate ; 
And thirty noble nieces each day sit down to 

dine 
With their gay and gallant uncle, and taste his 

meat and wine. 
Each lady is an heiress in her own good right 

and free, 
Has houses on the mainland, and ships upon 

the sea, 
And brings a worthy present to her uncle every 

year, 
To support his generous living, and furnish forth 

his cheer: 



84 CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE. 

For the honor of the family must be maintained, 

you know, 
And that fine old place at Washington must not 

to ruin go. 

Maine sends her lofty pines for masts and spars 

of ships, 
And loads of ice-packed salmon for epicurean 

lips ; 
New Hampshire, quarried stone from her ancient 

granite rocks ; 
Vermont, the silken fleeces of her thousand 

snowy flocks. 
Massachusetts' wains are laden with a curious, 

varied store ; 
Connecticut contributes her ' notions' by the 

score ; 
Their tiny sister Rhoda, so busy and so smart, 
Sends broadcloths and barberries for ' tartar ' and 

for tart. 



CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE. 85 

New York, so proud and queenly, brings the 
wealth of other lands, 

Which her daring sails have wafted from a hun- 
dred foreign strands, 

With the rich, uncounted produce of her green 
and golden fields, 

Which the bounteous hand of Nature to her 
myriad tenants yields. 

Pennsylvania sends her barges with the black 
and shining coal, 

From the steam-pierced Alleghanies, which shall 
warm and glad the whole. 

Delaware brings lots of peaches, having a rural 
turn of mind ; 

Jersey sends the costliest coaches that the trav- 
eller can find. 

Maryland sends many vessels laden with her 
wheat and maize ; 

The Old Dominion gallantly her Indian weed 
displays. 



86 CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE.' 

The Carolina sisters, — one her forest wealth 
brings forth ; 

One her cotton-bales, whose contents feed the 
spindles of the North. 

With them comes a train of ladies, richly dow- 
ered and high-bred dames, 

Proud as genuine Castilians, as punctilious in 
their claims. 

But I pause ; were I to finish out the list, it 
would eclipse, 

In its tedious numeration, Homer's catalogue of 
ships. 

In return, he gives them each protection and 

advice, 
Helps reckon their accounts up, and keep them 

square and nice ; 
Makes up their petty squabbles when they 

chance to disagree, 
With coaxing or with scolding, just as the case 

may be : 



CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE. 87 

For every disposition, from the tiger to the 

lamb, 
Is found in this fair household of gallant Uncle 

Sam. 

Some years ago, a captious dame across the 

Atlantic waves, 
Who in every body's pie to have a finger 

craves, — 
A real old busybody she, Britannia is her name, 
To these young ladies' property set up a sort 

of claim ; 
And smoothing down her apron, and looking 

o'er her specs, 
Said, ' Such a pack of madcaps were enough 

a saint to vex ; 
I'll teach them better manners, I'll tame the 

romps,' said she ; 
i Not a single sheet of paper, nor a single ounce 

of tea 



88 CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE. 

Shall they have, unless they pay me for the right 

of buying first, 
And I've fellows that will make them, if the 

worst comes to the worst ! ' 

And so it did directly, for the girls flared up at 

once, 
Called Britannia a covetous, tyrannical old 

dunce, 
Snapped their pretty fingers at her, and with 

united voice, 
As guardian for the future, of their uncle made 

a choice, 
And raised a large subscription to build a hand- 
some hall,. 
With galleries and chambers fit to contain them 

all. 
Of these high-tempered ladies whom Britannia 

meant to cozen, 
There came to live with Uncle Sam but just a 

baker's dozen : 



CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE. 89 

The rest were wild young savages, but grown 

sedate and stable, 
Have asked and been admitted since to sit with 

them at table. 

This favorite uncle sits at meat and carves a 

dainty piece, 
Just to suit the taste and fancy of each particular 

niece ; 
Looks proudly round upon them and on his 

princely store, 
And thinks, — his thoughts are scattered by a 

knocking at the door. 
'Hilloa! Who's there? What's wanting? 'the 

uncle loudly cries : 
With a slightly Spanish accent, a stranger voice 

replies : 
' Your dutiful relation, come to pay you her 

respects, 
And ask of you protection, who half the world 

protects. 



90 CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE. 

Pve late become an heiress to a very pretty dower, 
But fear its proper management is quite beyond 
my power.' 

Whispers Madam Massachusetts in her neigh- 
bor's listening ear: 

4 'Tis Miss Alta California, as sure as guns, that's 
here! 

I can't say that I bear her a great deal of good 
will, 

For thousands of my people are gone and going 
still 

To win a fortune from her mines ; however I 
must say, 

There 's few that I have heard from who seem 
inclined to stay.' 

1 Ha! Miss California, is it?' Says Uncle Sam, 

'my dear, 
If you please, just wait a minute, till I ask these 

ladies here; 



CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE. 91 

Of course they've no objection, I suppose it's a 

mere form,' — 
But his keen eye sees already the gathering of a 

storm. 
1 Fair nieces,' he continues, ' shall I take it that 

you are 
Disposed to welcome at our board this cousin 

come so far ? ' 
' That depends,' says Massachusetts, with a wise, 

prudential look, 
Putting down a row of figures in her memoran- 
dum book, — 
' Ha ! ha ! ' cries out another, with flashing eyes 

of jet, 
' You need not start to reckon your future profits 

yet: 
If you please, my Yankee sister, I've as good a 

right as you 
To determine what the household in this respect 

shall do!' 



92 CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE. 

' Sister Carrie,' says the other, ' why what on 
earth 's to pay ? 

Eat your dinner in contentment, and do n't be- 
have so, pray ; 

Remember I was fully grown before yourself was 
born.' 

But the black-eyed beauty answered, with ac- 
cents full of scorn : 

' Go to your loom and distaff! let your codfish 
pedlars bawl! 

Miss Cally's coming in here don't depend on 
you at all. 

You 've persuaded all new-comers, whenever you 
were able, 

To take their places round on your side of the 
table ; 

But she sha'nt have a place here, unless she sits 
by me! 

I'll take my things and leave first; now, madam, 
we will see!' 



CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE. 93 

* Leave and be no, 'tis folly to be riled ; 

We 've long been too indulgent with this spoiled, 

unruly child ! ' 
Uprises then a lady of stately form and mien, 
"With calm, imperial bearing, and takes her stand 

between 
The vexed and scolding sisters, but not a single 

word 
Of reason or remonstrance by the beauty will be 

heard, — 
; Go, persuade your friends, the Magyars, from 

your other friend, the Turk, 
We want none of your fine speeches, good sister 

of New York.' 

Meanwhile upon the threshold the weary stran- 
ger stands ; 

She presses down the latch with her white and 
jewelled hands, 



94 CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE. 

And enters 'mid the tumult, — with voice both 

firm and sweet 
She renews her application for protection and a 

seat; 
Ends her plea, at last, by saying, ' Good my 

cousins, understand 
That I come not here to ask for favor at your 

hand; 
Beyond your power of reckoning is the measure 

of my wealth, 
I 've a first-rate constitution, and fear not for my 

health. 
But if ever at this table I come to share your 

cheer, 
It will be as I shall choose, with these Yankee 

ladies here.' 

Hark ! the uproar is redoubled ; Uncle Sam grows 

angry too, 
Says in audible aside, ' Now here 'a fine to-do ! 



CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE. 95 

Shall I shake that wilful Carrie, cuff their ears 

that rail and shout ? 
Or sit still and eat my dinner, while the minxes 

scold it out ? ' 
Up gets honored, staid Virginia, filled with fury 

now and ire, 
On her calm, Green Mountain sister, wrathful 

casts her glance of fire : 
1 This to me ? you upstart milkmaid ! you may 

bid your tenants keep 
To themselves their cheese and butter, cloth of 

mill, and wool of sheep ! 
Not a cent of mine hereafter goes to buy their 

Yankee stuff, — 
I'll be bound before the year's out, you'll be low 
and poor enough.' 

Silver-voiced Kentucky rises with conciliatory 
plea ; 

Shows them what the termination of such dif- 
ference must be; 



96 CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE. 

Thinks that by a small concession, each her own 

desires would win, — 
'Tis so pleasant to be generous, what if they 

now begin. 
1 Hush ! be still ! I pray you, nieces, here 's a 

knocking at the door ; 
'Hilloa! who's there?' Uncle Sam cries as loud- 
ly as before. 
' A friend, almost a foreigner, New Mexico 's my 

name; 
To a sitting at your table, I prefer an humble 

claim. 
I don't know as I've finished my education 

quite, 
And my property's so new I can't compute it 

right ; 
My guardian is dead, and they plunder me like 

sin: 
I've now no one to look to, so prithee, let me 

in.' 



CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE. 97 

.' You'd best stay where you are, Miss, and wait 

till I am able 
To pacify these ladies, and get silence in this 

Babel. 
* My children,' he continues, ' this dispute is out 

of season ; 
We cannot drink the flow of soul, and eat the 

feast of reason. 
You talk of leaving, do you ? Miss Carrie, you're 

mistaken ! 
If I did'nt know your temper, I should think 

your wits were shaken. 
Knock! knock ! in heaven's name ! pray who ts 

calling now ? 
Here's a precious business brewing : I 'm 

stumped to-day, I vow! 
Go out, you villain porter! see what's the mat- 
ter there, 
Nor let another soul in without leave, Sir, if you 

dare ! ' 
7 



98 CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE 

' Here's another stranger, Sir, if it please you, 

wants a place; 
She wears uncommon garments, and has a dark 

wild face, 
Says she's got the finest fortune of any lady 

yet; 

You can have a handsome share of it, her name 
is Deseret. 

She 's building a big temple, and so ' 

' Shut up, you scamp ! 

Tell the lady my opinion is, she 'd better just 
decamp, 

I '11 send some one to bring her when I 've noth- 
ing else to do ; 

I've trouble 'nough already, without taking her 
in too. 

Knock ! knock ! why what on earth 's the mat- 
ter ? 

All nater seems determined to raise a general 
clatter ! ' 






CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE. 99 

Says a soft voice at the door, with infinite 

address : 
* Voulez vous, Monsieur, avez la grand poli- 

tesse 
De me donner — ' But here another inter- 
feres ; 
' We must speak a little louder if we mean to 

reach their ears. 
Here 's two sisters of the North, come to join 

our social band, 
We've had different educations, but we'll quickly 

understand 
Your customs, and your manners, for they are 

suited to our taste ; 
Having made our minds up slowly, we shan't 

repent in haste. 
Britannia's ruled us long enough, now we'll 

leave her in the lurch, 
For we're weary of supporting her army and 

her church.' 



100 CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE. 

Uncle Sam his forehead strikes, in trouble and 

vexation ! 
' Good Heavens ! all the world seems bent on 

annexation ! 
If these girls would hear to reason, — but when 

they're bound to scold, 
They will have their scolding out, I remember 

that of old. 
Knock ! knock ! knock ! my patience ! here's 

another ! 
Pray who can want to enter in, mid such a 

dreadful pother ? ' 
'It's a Spanish lady, Sir,' says the porter speak- 
ing low, 
4 And the way she speaks Castilian, I tell you, 

is 'nt slow ; 
I cannot understand a word, save Matanzas and 

Havana ; 
I guess you'd better send to her young Miss 

Louisa Anna, 



CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE. 101 

To see what she is wanting.' — ' Wants ! I'll bet 

a dollar 
She wants to come in here, and St. Domingo '11 

follow ! 
Keep dark ! Sir, mind you what I say, and don't 

let on a word 
To a single lady here, what you guess, or what 

you've heard; 
Here's a hornet's nest already, and the way 

they act is shocking ! 
But listen ! Seems to me I hear another knock- 
ing.' 
Through the door that stands ajar, the gallant 

bachelor spies 
A lady robed in black, with sad and tearful 

eyes. 
She bows low at the threshold : what spirit 

could but feel 
Some little throb of sympathy, at this her mute 

appeal ? 



102 CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE. 

' Alas ! it is poor Hungary ! ' says many a friendly 
voice ; 

* Pray give her home and welcome, since now 
she has no choice ! ' 

Uncle Sam then turns to profit the momentary 
hush ; 

Says that others get the bird, while we 're beat- 
ing round the bush ; 

Puts down his foot with firmness, says they may 
scold and tease, 

But these his new-come nieces shall be seated 
where they please. 

My story has no ending, for the end it is not yet, 
And whether these roused spirits their tempers 

will forget, 
And once more dwell in concord, I'm sure I 

cannot say, — 
But peace to all their troubles, and Heaven speed 

the day ! 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE FALLEN OAK. 

I've been among the winter woods, where winds 
are raging high, 

And wildly drifting snow descends in masses 
from the sky ; 

Down in the glen where sunken graves were 
deftly hid, they said, 

In which the Mohawks solemnly interred their 
honored dead. 

With timid tread and fearful foot, I crossed the 
narrow marsh, 

Where the branches of the alder-tree and horn- 
beam grated harsh ; 



106 THE FALLEN OAK. 

And on the farther side I stood, and a feeling, 

almost awe, 
Kept back awhile my very breath, at the solemn 

scene I saw : 
Prone on the moss, beside the swamp, there lay 

a giant oak, 
Whose mighty bulk had fallen late beneath the 

woodman's stroke ; 
Its rugged head full well I knew, that once right 

proudly there, 
A Saul among the forest trees, rose up so high 

in air, — 
I knew it, when a little child, my father carried me 
Upon his stalwart shoulder forth, the blessed 

woods to see. 

Oft have I stood in darkened rooms, beside the 

bed of death, 
And seen the coldly glazing eye, and heard the 

gurgling breath ; 



THE FALLEN OAK. 107 

And a lesser feeling like to it, came o'er me as I 
stood ■ 

Beside the prostrate trunk of that old monarch of 
the wood ; 

I could have wept right bitterly, but tears would 
not restore 

The uncrowned sovereign to his throne, his scep- 
tre give once more. 

I knelt upon the snowy moss, to count the 

circling rings, 
That round the oak tree's iron heart each coming 

season brings : 
Three hundred years recorded well upon that 

mighty girth, 
Had passed with all their changes by since that 

old tree had birth. 
Then in the distant ages back I noiseless seemed 

to go, 
The sky above was clearly blue, and green the 

earth below : 



108 



THE FALLEN OAK. 



Old storm-defying pines upreared their black 
masts in the sun, 

And heavy hemlocks swept the moss, with foliage 
dense and dun ; 

I saw the lithe arms of the ash out o'er the 
morass reach, 

And interlace with shining boughs of birch and 
water beach. 

Bright flowers were nodding gaily there, and 
Summer breezes round 

Woke up, amid the pine's green harps, a soft and 
pleasant sound ; 

The red deer slept their noontide sleep, the pan- 
ther on the tree 

Closed up his fiery eyes, nor watched his destined 
prey to see ; 

The falcon drooped among the boughs, the sing- 
ing birds were mute, 

The brown bear slumbered careless near the 
bramble's purple fruit; 






THE FALLEN OAK. 109 

A stout oak heaved its arms on high, topped 

with a leafy crown, 
And as in royal pride and state, upon its peers 

looked down. 

A wail rang through the silent wood — a cry of 

woe and wrath, 
And the tread of many feet was heard, along the 

grassy path ; 
The startled deer dashed swiftly by, the panther 

climbed aloft, 
The brown bear closer coiled himself among the 

mosses soft. 
Down the green slope a long train came, and in 

their midst they bore 
A burthen wrapt in shining skins, with plumes 

and flowers spread o'er. 
Loud rang the death wail, for they brought their 

warrior king to sleep 
Forever in that lonely spot, where lay the shad- 
ows deep : 



110 THE FALLEN OAK. 

They hollowed out with reverent care, between 

the stones, a space, 
And sat him upright in his grave, and toward 

the east his face ; 
And laid his arrows by his side, his strong bow 

in his hand, 
That he might chase the flying deer when in the 

spirit land : 
Then heaped the warm, dry mould above his 

lately heaving breast, 
And with a last wild cry turned back, and left 

him to his rest. 

The vision faded, — once again, among the leaf- 
less wood, 

I saw the white storm drifting wild through cold, 
blank solitude ; 

The birchen saplings bent their heads before the 
rushing gale, 

The young pines swayed, and little twigs came 
rattling down like hail : 









THE FALLEN OAK. Ill 

I stood up in the howling storm and said — O 

fallen tree ! 
The relic of a buried world dost thou appear to 

me! 
Sole witness of that shadowy past, whose story 

none can tell, 
Nor guess the wild and strange events that in 

those haunts befell ! 
In thy green prime, a century old. thou stood'st 

when winds of June 
Wafted o'er 'Unknown River' bold Hudson's 

staunch ' Half Moon ; ' 
Thou saw'st thy mates around thee fall, and the 

full blaze of day 
Into thy secret woodland haunts find its unwel- 
come way ; 
Around thee rose the grove once more, and gentle 

creatures came 
To dwell with thee, where timid flowers shrank 

from the sun's bright flame; 



112 THE FALLEN OAK. 

Before the axe had found thee out, strong, full of 

years wert thou, 
For every Summer brought green leaves to 

wreathe thy hoary brow. 

But down the white storm thicker came, and on 

my thoughts intent, 
I slowly turned my steps away, and up the 

wood-path went ; 
And felt that 'twas a fitting shroud, heaven's 

wildly whirling snow, 
For that old king who ruled these shades, three 

hundred years ago. 



113 



MORNING. 



The faint ray of morning gleams pale in the sky, 
Before its soft radiance the curling mists fly ; 
Away to the tops of the mountains they 're rolled, 
And seem in the sunshine like fleeces of gold. 
Each glad bird awakes from his perch on the tree, 
And pours out his music all joyous and free; 
The forest depths echo the soft, happy sound, 
The dew-refreshed flowers spread their odors 

around ; 
Each voice that was stilled is now rising in mirth, 
Each light, bounding footstep now treads the 

fresh earth, 
Each eye sparkles brighter beneath the sun's ray ; 
All nature is glad at the dawning of day ! 
8 



114 



MY NATIVE HILLS. 

I stand once more upon the hills, — 

The great hills, wide and high ! 
And childhood's feeling through me thrills, 

' I 'm nearer to the sky.' 
The dark pines deck them with a crown, 

The snows a mantle lend, 
And many a cottage warm and brown 

Upon their lap they tend. 

The glorious hills ! I speak their name 
With a quickening pulse of pride, 

My cheek hath a flush, my eye a flame, 
As I press their mighty side. 



MY NATIVE HILLS. 115 

I feel that whate'er is theirs of light, 

And beauty and love, is mine ; 
For I was born, on a summer's morn, 

Within their sacred shrine. 

The first green fields mine eyes beheld 

Lay wide upon their breast, — 
The first sweet flowers my weak hands held 

Were stolen from their crest. 
God bless the hills — my native hills — 

The ' proud strength ' he has given ! 
And still the feeling through me thrills, — 

' I 'm very near to Heaven.' 



116 



MY OLD DOG AND MY NEW. 

Old Rover is a spaniel, with curls of chestnut 

brown, 
And ears just made for beauty, they droop so 

smoothly down ; 
His teeth are worn and broken, his eyes are 

growing dull, — 
They wonder I could ever have thought him 

beautiful ; 
But lithe was he and agile, though pitiful to see, 
When a hungry, houseless creature, my old dog 

came to me. 



MY OLD DOG AND MY NEW. 117 

Young Tray's a glossy herds-dog, with hair as 

soft as silk 
And black as raven's pinion, while his feet are 

white as milk ; 
He 's tall and strong and graceful, he lists to 

every sound, 
And answers to my calling with a sudden bark 

and bound ; 
At evening or at morning, for work or merry 

play, 
He is ready on the instant, my silver-footed Tray. 

Old Rover 's sad and sullen, beside the fire he 
lies 

When wintry tempests darken December's dis- 
mal skies ; 

And when balmy June draws nigh sits musing in 
the sun, 

Like some old warrior reckoning the laurels he 
has won, 



118 MY OLD DOG AND MY NEW. 

Or growls at coming stranger ; yet surly though 

he be, 
I cannot tell how truly my old dog 's loved by me. 

Young Tray is good and gentle, he loves to be 

caressed, 
He leaps 'when neighbors enter' to welcome 

every guest ; 
They tell me he 's a beauty, he springs upon my 

neck, 
His multitude of kisses I vainly strive to check ; 
When I walk, he 's ever near to guard me in the 

way,— 
I cannot help but love him, the musical-voiced 

Tray. 

Old Rover views his rival with never-ceasing 

wrath, 
And snarls at him when gaily he bounds across 

his path, 



MY OLD DOG AND MY NEW. 



119 



Then presses closer to me, and looks up in my 

face, 
As asking if another should ever have his place ; 
And watches Tray's brisk movements with such 

stern and daring eye, 
That I almost fear his anger, when the winning 

dog is by. 



120 



MY MOTHER. 

Art thou thinking of me, Mother? Art thou 

thinking, Mother dear, 
Of her whose seat is vacant, whose chamber's 

lone and drear ? 
Dost thou miss me at the evening ? Dost thou 

miss me at the morn? 
Dost thou miss the ringing laughter that from 

thy ear is gone ? 
When thy heart is weary, Mother, and thy soul 

is full of care, 
Dost thou think of me e'en then, and wish that 

I were there ? 



MY MOTHER. 121 

Dost thou never, never listen to hear thy daugh- 
ter's tread, 

And raise thy hand unthinking to lay it on her 
head? 

The flowers are springing, Mother, upon our 

green hill-side, 
But I cannot pluck them for thee and wreath 

with childish pride : 
Hast thou now sweet blossoms by thee, and 

doth the violet's bloom 
Shed a beauty and a blessing around our little 

room? 
The birds are singing, Mother, — the birds are 

full of glee, — 

Dost thou wander forth at eventide to list their 

melody ? 
And do they never breathe to thee a sweet and 

solemn strain, 
That calleth back thy absent one unto thy heart 

again ? 



122 MY MOTHER. 

Is Rover sleeping, Mother, is he sleeping at thy 

feet? 
And doth he sometimes waken as if my step to 

meet? 
Are his little limbs as nimble, — his hair as 

glossy brown, 
As when I frolicked with him and smoothed his 

curls all down? 

Who sleeps upon my couch, Mother, — who sits 

in my low chair? 
Dost thou never start, forgetting, and think that 

I am there ? 
Art thou thinking of me, Mother, — art thou 

thinking, Mother dear, 
Of her whose seat is vacant, whose chamber 's 

lone and drear ? 



123 



CHILDHOOD. 

Bless God, for happy infancy ! it is a fountain 

bright, 
Upflashing to the cloudless sky beneath the 

morning light ; 
The fount becomes a river soon that seeks a 

mystic sea, 
Whose ceaseless chime moans out one sound for 

aye, Eternity! 

Bless God, for holy infancy ! the light of Heaven 

lies, 
Undimmed by thought, unveiled by care within 

its shining eyes : 



124 CHILDHOOD. 

Hot tears will by-and-by blot out that soft, ethe- 
real blue, 

And blanch the glowing, rosy cheek into a pallid 
hue. 

Bless God, for precious infancy ! it is a golden 

shade, 
Upon the dusty web of life by angel fingers 

made, — 
The fairest, but the frailest part, the first to fade 

away, 
And so we prize it all the more for its short, 

fleeting stay. 



125 



WORDS OF CHEER. 

When harvests are springing in valley and plain, 
Singeth the laborer, bendeth the grain, — 
Whistling and dashing the dew from the leaves, 
Cooling his brow in the bland morning breeze ; 
So may'st thou speed thee, on life joyous way, 
And its evening be clear as the dawn of the day. 

As the husbandman brings to his glad home at 

even, 
The plentiful harvest the Father hath given, 
With grateful heart ringing his free Autumn song, 
While the stout oxen draw the rich sheaves along; 
So may'st thou gather a golden reward, 
With a heart full of thanks to the bountiful Lord. 



126 



CHRIST'S BLESSING. 



Long since the Master journeyed here, 
And grief and sorrow knew, — 

False hearts around him waxed strong, 
And feeble were the true. 



But once, when in the city's streets, 
He humbly sat and taught, 

Dear little children, guileless, pure, 
Were to his presence brought. 

He looked upon each golden head, 
Each bright, unshadowed eye, — 

No trouble lay upon their souls, 
No dark hours hovered nigh. 



Christ's blessing. 



127 



And then he spake sweet words to them, 

Of teaching and of love ; 
And told them of the angel bands 

That ministered above. 

Through strong temptations overcome, 
Through faith mid trials sore, 

With trembling steps, oft led astray 
We reach the Heavenly shore, — 

But ye, through Jesus' love, shall have 
Your few, small sins forgiven, 

And may exchange your bright life here, 
For a brighter still, in heaven. 

For as he blest you in his arms 

Thrown tenderly around, 
He'll bear you, love encircled, through 

The conflict to the crown. 



128 






THE WEARY HEART. 

' Let me die ! Mighty angel, that standest before 

me, 
Watching o'er me forever through good and 

through ill, — 
Let me die ! for the pinion is drooping that bore 

me; 
Forbid me no longer my end to fulfil. 
Let me die ! Loose the cords, — the golden bowl 

shatter ; 
I have poured forth its life-drops in measureless 

trust ; 
Cut asunder the web, its gilded shreds scatter, 
To mingle like me in the valueless dust.' 



THE WEARY HEART. 129 

< Weary child, hush thy moaning ! the sky will 

soon brighten, 
The spirit forget for its haven to yearn, — 
Endurance the heart of its burden will lighten, — 
Where deep gloom is resting, bright joys shall 

return. 
In hope's glowing garden fresh blossoms are 

springing, 
They fringe the dark borders of memory's stream, 
A thousand gay echoes around thee are ring- 
ing,— 
Arise, youthful heart, childhood's pledges re- 
deem!' 

1 Oh, well may I break every pledge that was 

given 
In life's early morn, when effort was young! 
For the spirit is worn that has fruitlessly striven, 
Its quick pulses palsied, its life-chords unstrung. 
9 



130 THE WEARY HEART. 

When a blight on the half-opened lily is falling, 
When the young tree is drooping that rose to- 
ward the sky, 
Ye seek not to stay them by vainly recalling 
The sap of the Spring, — Let me die! Let me 
die!' 

* Would' st thou die, when the sweet breath of 
praise is around thee ? 

While glad voices utter with rapture thy name ? 

Rise ! Loosen the sorrowful cords that have 
bound thee, 

And taste the rich draught from the chalice of 
fame. 

Forget the wrung spirit, and, proudly aspiring, 

Go forth with a smile that shall nothing betray ! 

Bid thy heart cease its pictures of sadness de- 
vising, 

And heed not the shadows that fall by the way.' 



THE WEARY HEART. 131 

* Let the bruised reed break, and the cankered 

flower wither, — 
I have sown, I have reaped, — a full harvest was 

mine ; 
And never again shall the spring-time come 

brighter, 
Or the soft dews of promise with fairer tints 

shine. 
I have lived out my day, — I have eaten my 

portion, — 
I have drunken my draught while the cup 

mantled high, — 
Oh ! why should I linger mid earthly commo- 
tion? 
I ask not to live, — Let me die ! Let me die ! ' 



132 



WITH THE GIFT OF A YARD MEASURE. 

Measure ! measure ! 

Evermore ! evermore ! 
Whether in grief or pleasure, 
Whether with dross or treasure, 

Our cup of life runs o'er. 
One, two, three, 

Two, three, one ; 
From the twilight's veiling, 
From the night wind's wailing 

To the rising sun 

Cometh the Summer, 

Cometh joyous Spring, 
Cometh Autumn's quiet, 
Winter's stormy riot, 

Measured by Time's wing. 



WITH THE GIFT OF A YARD MEASURE. 133 

Cometh Childhood's laughter, 

Girlhood's April tears, 
Cometh spirit-weeping, 
Through life's changes, keeping 

Measure of the years. 

Cometh sun and shadow, 

Cometh wind and rain, 
Cometh the glad morning, 
Cometh night's adorning, 

Measuring earth's reign. 
Measure! Measure! 

Evermore ! evermore ! 
Whether in grief or pleasure, 
Whether with dross or treasure, 

Our cup of life runs o'er. 



134 



THE WINE CUP. 

Tell me thy secrets, thou enchanted bowl ! 
Yield up thy treasures hoarded there so long ; 
Pour out the poison for the unwary soul ; 
Bring forth the spoils which unto thee belong. 

Yet more — the cup hath more! Pour forth the 

tears, 
The burning tears bright eyes have shed for thee ; 
Give back the broken heart, the blighted years, 
And set the weary, care-worn spirit free. 

Yet more — the cup hath more ! Y r ield up the gold 
That, on thine altar, revelry hath spread ; 
Restore the treasure, for the sum untold 
Would furnish Europe's starving sons with bread. 



THE WINE CUP. 135 

Yet more — the cup hath more ! Bring back the 

time 
Squandered on thee — unnumbered, precious 

hours 
Poured forth like water, — tell me of the crime, 
The fearful guilt, which o'er thy victim lowers. 

Yet more — the cup hath more! give up the gifts, 
Talents, fame, honor, buried 'neath thy pall ; 
Mind, reason, judgment, — give up all that lifts 
Man above brute, and makes him lord of all. 

Yet more — the cup hath more ! Accursed bowl ! 
Yield up the last, best treasure of thy spoils, — 
Bring forth the high, the pure, immortal soul, 
Bound in the meshes of thy wizard toils. 

No more — It hath no more ! It gives up all 
In yielding up the long-imprisoned soul ! 
Thy power is fallen — broken is thy thrall : 
I ask no more, oh once enchanted bowl ! 



136 



THE PRISONER'S PRAYER. 

In the stillness of the prison, 
In the midnight lone and drear, 

Tremblingly I bow before thee, 
Holy Father ! wilt thou hear ? 

Though the bars are strong about me, 
Though the walls are thick and high, 

Blessed Father ! thou can'st pierce them 
With thy never-slumbering eye. 

Shut from breath of rose and violet, 
Shut from moon and starry light, 

Through the long, long day of Summer, 
Through the long, long Winter night. 



THE PRISONER'S PRAYER. 137 

When the dimmed and chequered sunlight 

Coldly falls upon the floor, 
When it flicks with feeble radiance 

On the barred and bolted door ; 

Then I would that I had never 
Seen the blessed Summer skies, 

Would that never had the greensward 
Met these weary, longing eyes. 

When the calling of the jailer, 

And the tread of heavy feet 
Reach my distant prison chamber, 

And my ear so harshly greet ; 

Then I would that I had never 
Heard the bird-song in the pines, 

Never heard their gushing music 
Ringing from the tangled vines. 



138 the prisoner's prayer. 

'Tis but torture here to idle 

Strength of mind and limb away. 

Gladdened heart and bounding pulses 
Come not with returning day. 

Not thus, Father, all repining, 
Would I bend in prayer to Thee, 

But the human heart within me 
Riseth up so thanklessly ! 

But to quench this fearful longing 
For the Earth, so good and green, 

I implore that vanished pleasures, 
Be as if they ne'er had been. 

Dim the memories of my childhood, 
Hush my sister's joyous glee, 

Blot out every bright remembrance, — 
Leave, oh God, but faith in Thee ! 



139 



THE NUN OF SANTA MARTHA. 

Why moans the mountain wind to-night 

With such a pitying shiver? 
Why dashes, in the white moonlight, 

The foaming torrent river ? 
The iron bars the strong wind jars, 

And shakes the bolted door, 
And the river's voice unto the stars 

Goes up with sullen roar. 
Mary Mother, 
Guard poor Elinore ! 

I cannot sleep, I fain would weep, 

For memories old arise, 
And but for fear, and but for shame, 

The tears would fill my eyes : 



140 THE NUN OF SANTA MARTHA. 

A quick pain runs across my brow, — 

A voice I must not hear, 
With well loved tone seems whispering now 
In my familiar ear. 
Mary Mother, 
That I such voice should hear ! 

I '11 rise and trim the little lamp 

That dimly lights my room, 
Perchance the rays of its cheerful blaze 

Will chase away the gloom ; 
I cannot sleep, I fain would weep : 

How loud that thunder came ! 
Back to my couch I will not creep, 

But take my 'broidery frame ; 
Lend brightly, 
Little lamp, thy flame ! 

That pretty leaf ! I 've sewn it false, 
But what is that to me ? 



THE NUN OF SANTA MARTHA. 141 

Perchance no eye I ever loved 

Its ragged edge may see ; 
But some gay demoiselle may say 

'Tis 'broidered passing well, 
Wrought by a nun, a skilful nun, 
In Santa Martha's cell. 

Smiling maiden ! 

Hast thou no more to tell ? 



Eleven times the pallid moon 

Hath filled her crescent horn, 
Since first intent o'er this I bent, 

Upon a Summer's morn ; 
The Summer gay is on its way, 

Once more its step is near ; 
I never felt so little joy 

Its echoing tread to hear ; 
Even sunshine 
Seemeth pale and drear! 



142 THE NUN OF SANTA MARTHA. 

The golden sunshine, that of yore 

Gleamed through our quiet dell, 
With a silent, holy radiance 

From morn till evening fell, — 
I wonder if to stranger eyes 

That in that valley be, 
It seemeth such a blessed thing, 

As then it seemed to me, — 
A magic torchlight 
Gilding land and sea ! 

I am forgotten ! when above 

My head the pall was flung, 
And heavily upon its hinge 

The convent grating swung, 
The few who came to look on me 

Walked laughingly away, 
And thought no more of Elinore 

From that unhappy day. 
Enough for her 
Was it, to weep and pray ! 



THE NUN OF SANTA MARTHA. 143 

I am forgotten ! would that I 

Like others might forget ; 
A thousand painful memories 

Would cease to haunt me yet ; 
I should not waken from my sleep 

To feel a dreaming kiss, 
Nor drop my rosary and turn 

From prayer to thought like this, — 
From prayer devout 
To sinful thought like this ! 

Tears ! tears ! Madonna, pray for me ! 

Thou wert a woman true, 

And surely thou on earth did'st love 

As earthly maidens do. 
No more ! no more ! — I will not weep, 

But trim my lamp again, 
And while I sew the mimic leaves 
Will sing some holy strain. 
Oh ! that morning 
Blest would come again ! 



144 



HE CARETH FOR THEE. 

God careth for the lilies ! 

He guards them day by day, 
The rich perfumes they offer up, 
By Him were mingled in each cup, 

To Him, they rise alway. 

God careth for the lilies ! 

The subtle robes and bright, 
That fit the growth of bud and flower, 
By Him, are woven every hour, 

"With viewless shuttle's flight. 

But more for thee, oh, Mary ! 
He careth more, for thee ! 



THE WEARY HEART. 145 

The lilies that thy fingers cull, 
That die because their days are full, 
Like poor ephemera be. 

God careth for thee, Mary! 

The lilies He has given 
May die and all forgotten rest, 
Whilst thou wilt lean upon His breast, 

A snow-white flower in Heaven. 



10 



146 



THE BIRD AND THE BROOK. 

One morn among the roses, 
I heard a small bird sing 

To the tinkling of the brook, 

Which with a holy look 
The sky was mirroring. 

Up in the eastern heavens, 

The proud sun slowly rolled, 
And the small bird sweeter sung, 
And the breeze the roses swung, 
And the brooklet shone like gold. 



THE BIRD AND THE BROOK. 147 

Then the bird said, ' Ever, ever,. 

I will gaily sit and sing, 
And the sun will ever shine, 
And the roses ever twine, 

And the brook speed murmuring.' 

Up the sun went higher, higher, 
Towards the hot and fervid noon, 

And a little cloud arose, 

Wide and far it spreads, it goes, — 
And a chilling breath comes soon. 

With a wild scream nears the wind-gust, 
Mounts with rushing wing the sky, 

Sweeps o'er darkened wood and lea, 

Prostrates many a goodly tree, 
On the trembling moss to die. 

Then it bore away in triumph, — 
And the sun looked forth anon ; 



148 THE BIRD AND THE BROOK. 

But the roses, they were fled, 
And the small bird, it was dead, — 
But the brook still murmured on. 

Such I said, is life, forever ! 

Fairest blossoms soonest fade, 
Sweetest songs are soonest hushed, 
And the scene with pleasure flushed, 

Soonest darkens 'neath the shade ! 

Blest are they, who, like the streamlet, 
Fearing not the lightning's glow, — 

Undisturbed by sudden harm. 

Ever placid, ever calm, 

Still maintain a crystal flow. 



149 



INVITATION TO THE CHRISTMAS 
GATHERING. 



There 's a tree that blossoms in winter time, 
In spite of tempests and wind and snow, 

And fruit as bright as in tropic clime, 

On its fresh green branches wave and glow ; 

No matter how gloomy the winter be, 

There 's sure to be fruit on the Christmas tree. 

We have planted one on the old hill-side, 
And friendship has promised to tend it well, 

Its branches are budding and spreading wide, 
And its earliest flowers we begin to tell ; 

And daily it gladdens our eyes to see 

The rapid growth of the Christmas tree. 



150 INVITATION TO THE CHRISTMAS GATHERING. 

It will bear no harvest of crimson and gold, 
Nor shine with the droppings of silver showers, 

The fabled Hesperian trees of old 
Will have no rival in this of ours ; 

Neither rich nor rare will the fruitage be, 

Which will hang on the boughs of our Christmas 
tree. 

But plain though it be, it will worthier seem, 
When you think it was nurtured by Friend- 
ship's hand, 

And its simple appeal to your kind esteem 
Your generous spirit will scarce withstand ; 

So we ask you to come, though it winter be, 

And gather the fruit of our Christmas tree. 



151 



THE PARTING. 

Leave me not now ! to place the rushing river, 
The boundless plain, the forest's lengthening line, 
And haunts of fearful, wandering men, forever 
Between thy unknown, distant home and mine. 

Leave me not now ! mine ear hath closely listened 
To catch thy words and learn their welcome tone ; 
My watchful eye with childhood's tear hath 

glistened 
At sight of thee, who leav'st me now — alone. 

Leave me not now ! the Spring in silence sleeping 
Will waken into murmuring life again, 
With April skies above the low grass weeping, 
While thou art speeding o'er the flashing main. 



152 THE PARTING. 

Shall I not hear the vexed, tumultuous billow, 
Through the long tossings of the night's unrest, 
When mingles with the fancies of the pillow 
The pine tree's voice upon the mountain's 
crest ? 

Shall I not listen to the sea-shell's moaning, 
That strangely vibrates like the swelling sea, 
And fancy it an echoed storm, intoning 
A solemn dirge in memory of thee ? 

Leave me not now ! the idleness of sorrow 
Will steal away the bounding of my heart ; 
The dreams that poets from the unseen borrow, 
Like Sibyl's oracles, unread, depart. 

Task not the untoward future ! mortal vision 
May ne'er discern the secrets of a day ; 
Live only in the present ; the elysian 
And mournful paths are tangled in our way. 



THE PARTING. 153 

Trust not ambition, ever forward reaching 
To the unknown, the unattained below ; 
List to the gentle Spirit's holy teaching ; 
Seek not for treasure — ' Garnered gold is woe.' 

Go forth ! go forth ! my words are unavailing, 
My prayers are powerless to entreat thy stay, 
And all unheeded as the night wind's wailing, 
On an unlistening ear they die away. 

Go forth ! go forth ! I do regret my pleading, — 
Go in the strength of young blood bounding free ; 
Go o'er the wave, 'neath Hope's false star mis- 
leading, 
The star that ne'er will guide thee back to me. 



154 



TO A FRIEND IN EUROPE. 

I send thee hence a message across the stormy sea, 
A present from that grand old world I pray thee 

bring to me, — 
No chiselled vase or picture, nor jewel gaily set, 
No robe of costly workmanship nor pretty amulet. 



The only web I ask of thee is such as Nature 

weaves, 
When she clothes the forest branches with a 

verdant dress of leaves ; 
And the only gem I pray for is a modest little 

flower, 
Which has bloomed beyond the ocean its brief 

and sunny hour. 



TO A FRIEND IN EUROPE. 155 

Oh ! bring me but an orange-bud from the gar- 
dens of Versailles, 

And a chestnut leaf that lightly played in soft 
Italian gales, 

A willow sprig from Leman's bank, a lily from 
the Rhine, 

A laurel from the crumbling tomb of Virgil the 
divine. 



And I pray thee bring me also a little tuft of 

grass 
From the streets through which the Caesars in 

triumph once did pass ; 
And when thou standest thoughtfully beneath 

some olive tree 
In fair Sicilia, wilt thou turn and pluck a leaf for 

me? 



156 



TO A FRIEND IN EUROPE. 



And if a wish can speed thee forth with safety 

on thy way, 
I'll promise thee, in poor return, a dozen every 

day. 
May Collins and Cunard unite to bridge the 

ocean wide, 
And send thee back in health and joy to Housa- 

tonic's side. 



157 



COME TO THE HILLS. 

Come to the hills, when the May-brooks are 

leaping, 
Come, when the violet has waked from her 

sleeping, 
Come, when the blue-bird his gala is keeping, 

And from the soft skies the sudden showers fall : 
Leave to the city its false care and pleasure, 
Leave those who will, to be heaping up treasure, 
Fill joy's bright chalice with o'erflowing measure, 

Hear how the voices of wood and field call : 
Be glad, shout the streams as they dash on in 

brightness, 
Be glad, sings the bird on his pinion of lightness, 
Be glad, thou may'st read in the clouds' silvery 

whiteness, 
As heaven's bright canopy bends over all. 



158 COME TO THE HILLS. 

Where on the meadow-knolls wind-flowers are 

springing, 
"Where in the orchard the oriole 's singing, 
Where 'mong the willow-buds wild bees are 
humming, 
Thou shalt recline on the soft vernal grass : 
Up where old Kaunameek's rugged cliff's tower- 
ing, 
Up on the slate, where the columbine's flowering, 
Up where the maples their tassels are showering, 
Fearless and buoyant thy footsteps shall pass. 

The marmot steals forth from its hole in the 

hedges, 
The muskrat is seen 'mong the dark matted 

sedges, 
The lake's tenants croak on its green plashy 

edges, 
The field-mouse and squirrel no more hide 

away. 



COME TO THE HILLS. 159 

Then flee to the hills from the city's close prison, 
Breathe the sweet breath of the flowers newly 

risen, 
Deep in the dells to the brown thrushes listen, 
Hear the robin's sweet song and the field spar- 
row's lay. 

Fleet are the black horses, fetterless grazing 
Where hill over hill its green crest is upraising ; 
They toss back their heads to their master's proud 
praising, 

They shall bear thee sure-footed as erst they 
bore me. 
The Caatskill's vast chain in the distant west 

The dark, glowing Helderbergh, tempest defying, 
The blue Sacondaga's undaunted replying 
To Graylock's rude challenge, thy vision shall 
see. 



160 COME TO THE HILLS. 

Oh ! clear is the starlight at eventide given, 
And glorious the sun when the darkness is riven ; 
Who dwells on these hills, he is nearer to heaven 

Than in river-girt city, by night or by day. 
Then come, when the violets the road-side are 

paving, 
Come, when the brooks the green pastures are 

laving, 
Come, when the hemlock's fresh tassels are 

waving, 
Oh, come with the blue-bird, and stay with 

the jay ! 



161 



THE GOLDEN ISLANDS. 

One twilight time in Summer, 
Sweet Annie Story and I 

Went up the darkening hill-side, 
To gaze on the western sky. 

Behind us, oaks and maples 

With crossed arms silent stood ; 

The evening light lay faintly 
On the moss-beds of the wood. 

We gazed far down the valleys, 
And o'er the billowy swells, 

And heard from the distant village 
The chime of the factory bells. 
11 



162 THE GOLDEN ISLANDS. 

Our hearts in the silence grew gentle, 
And holy thoughts I could trace, 

In the beautiful, calm expression 
Of sweet Annie Story's face. 

The daylight gleams died slowly 
From the landscape one by one, 

And a vast and purple ocean 
Lay where had been the sun. 

Amid its tideless billows 
Seven golden islands grew, 

And golden vessels softly 
Came sailing thereunto. 

And ever, as their glittering prows 
Approached the glorious shore, 

They silently blended with it, 
And back returned no more. 



THE GOLDEN ISLANDS. 163 

No breezes troubled the stillness 
Of that strange and solemn sea, 

While through the purple distance 
The ships sailed silently 

As we gazed on those Golden Islands, 

Sweet Annie Story's head, 
With its chestnut curls drooped lower 

On my shoulder, and she said : — 

* Thou art that shining haven, 

The world that dim, dark sea, 
And my heart, like those wandering ships, 

Will at last come back to thee.' 

Then I pressed the dear child closer, 
As I looked down the coming years, 

On the vague and misty future, 

And whispered through my tears : — 



164 THE GOLDEN ISLANDS. 

' Life is that purple ocean, 

And Heaven that shining strand, 

And our souls, like those golden vessels, 
Float on to the glorious land.' 



165 



MY BROTHER. 

Droop not, my brother ! though thy sky be dim, 
And the warm sunshine for a while withdrawn, 
Though the fresh gladness of thy spirit's hymn 
Be for a season gone. 

Droop not, my brother ! Many a joyous day, 
In store for thee, the kindly future keeps, — 
When the blest hope shall rise and smile alway, 
That now in silence sleeps. 

Droop not, my brother! Weariness and tears 
Are needful in this lightsome life of ours, 
And the deep shadowing of thy spring-time years 
Shall be like shade to flowers, — 



166 MY BROTHER. 

Which else had too much sunshine, — and the 

truth, 
That clouds and rains and storms bring after 

peace, 
'T were well to learn in the first flush of youth, — 

So shall they sooner cease. 

Droop not, my brother ! there is yet a balm 
In Gilead, for the aching heart of thine ; 
Passed is the tempest, cometh the sweet calm, 
Grateful as eve's decline. 

Droop not, my brother ! many a precious gift 
Hath the great God, in mercy, given thee : 
He seeth thee, and thy bowed soul shall lift, 
With Him at last to be. 



167 



WOMAN. 



A Woman pleads for womanhood; — inspiring 

is the theme, 
Exhaustless as the ocean depths, pure as the 

sunlight's gleam ; 
We may not find a prouder word on life's 

emblazoned page, 
Through childhood's shining record, and the 

shadowed lines of age. 



168 WOMAN. 

From earliest ages, whence the light comes down 
so faint and dim, 

To these last days, whose march proceeds with 
grand triumphal hymn, 

In vain, upon the primal earth, the eternal moun- 
tains rose, 

The verdant valleys smiled in vain, and glitt'ring 
glaciers froze ; 

In vain, the awful ocean heaved its billows to 
the sky, 

And the new-created sun illumed the firmament 
on high ; 

Gloomy and stern, man stood alone, sole mon- 
arch of the world, 

While round him unseen blossoms sprang, above 
white vapors curled ; 

Unsatisfied, unthankful, rude, he heard no kin- 
dred voice, 

Nor praised the gifts of Providence, where none 
approved his choice : 



WOMAN. 169 

The Father's lavish care, in vain, upon his head 

was cast, 
Till Woman, — God's great second thought, — 

was given to man at last. 

Open that old and deathless book, whose words 

Ave dare not spurn, 
And read her well-deserved renown in every 

page we turn ; 
Call up the sages of the past, their classic tomes 

explore, — 
Her name shines forth illustrious whene'er we 

scan them o'er ; 
The prophet and the priest alike, the shepherd 

and the king, 
Unite her generous worth to praise, her noble 

deeds to sing : — 
Here Egypt's princess saves from death the 

Hebrew babe forlorn, 
And Miriam sings the tyrant's fate in high 

triumphal scorn ; 



170 WOMAN. 

Here Deborah, the priestess pure, the judge, the 

poet shines, 
And Jephtha's daughter, round her sire her snowy 

arm entwines ; 
Mary of Bethany ! oh, bliss unutterably sweet, 
To listen to the Master's words, reclining at his 

feet! 
Did not his consecrating hand rest on her soft, 

bright hair, 
As in her childlike innocence she waited quiet 

there ? 
How beamed her glorious Eastern eyes, how 

thrilled her glowing heart, 
When from His lips assurance came, her's was 

the better part ! 
Behold our Saviour's mystic life! how oft the 

tale is told 
Of loving service rendered Him, by those meek 

dames of old. 



WOMAN. 171 

Thou Mary, Mother undefiled ! who nursed upon 
thy knee 

The Saviour babe, how radiant shines woman- 
hood in thee ! 

Sweet, holy, tender, beautiful, — so shows thy 
lovely life, 

The model of true Womanhood, the Mother, 
and the Wife! 

But turning from the sacred page, alike in the 

profane, 
We need not look for evidence of Woman's 

worth in vain: 
Here Semiramis rears on high the Babylonish wall, 
And brave Zenobia builds her towers and 

mourns their early fall ; 
Volumnia saves imperial Rome, — Hortensia 

pleads her cause, 
And from the astonished senators a thousand 

plaudits draws ; 



172 WOMAN. 

There Iphigenia consecrates her life at Aulis' 

shrine, 
And pale Alcestis, for her lord, yields up her soul 

divine. 

Read the fresh annals of our land, the gathering 

dust of time 
Not yet has fallen on the scroll to dim the tale 

sublime ; 
There Woman's glory proudly shines, for will- 
ingly she gave 
Her costliest offerings, to uphold the generous 

and brave 
Who fought her country's battles well ; and oft 

she periled life 
To save a father, brother, friend, in those dark 

years of strife. 
Whatever strong-armed man hath wrought, 

whatever he hath won, 
That goal hath Woman also reached, that 

action hath she done. 



WOMAN. 



173 



Woman may wear the golden crown, and grasp 

the glittering shield, 
And drive her gory chariot wheels across the 

battle-field, — 
Build gorgeous cities for a jest, or lay them in 

the dust, 
Command the lightning of the sword, or bid it 

lie and rust. 
None may assert that sway like this, is not 

within her scope, 
But never Woman, thus empowered, for happi- 
ness might hope : 
A flower-wreath for her gentle brow, a distaff 

for her hand, 
Are fitter far than crown of gold, or sceptre of 

command. 

A prouder realm than king ere swayed, — a 

nobler battle-field 
Than trampling courser ever trod, to her its 

spoils may yield ; 



174 



WOMAN. 



Her slender hand is strong to wield the pen 

within its grasp, 
Or gifted with a magic skill, the painter's brush 

to clasp ; 
Her words have rung throughout the world, and 

thrilled the coldest heart, 
And bidden from the sternest eye the sudden 

tear-drop start. 
Ah! greenest wreaths to Woman's brow, doth 

genius love to twine, 
And freshest from her spirit flows the gift of 

song divine, — 
A fountain, flashing pearly rain, with soft, me- 
lodious fall, — 
A breeze-swept lyre, responsive to the zephyr's 

gentle call, — 

A flower-feast, flung with careless hand upon 

the gladsome earth, — 
A star-song, such as ushered in the new creation's 

birth. 



WOMAN. 175 

Oh ! every lovely, lavish thing, that may to life 

belong, 
Is like the free, o'erflowing wealth of Woman's 

gift of song. 

What if to pestilential cell, whose very air is 
death, 

Man comes, on mercy's errand bent, with half- 
suspended breath ; 

There, hath her footstep passed ere his, her 
gentle voice been heard, 

The dank air of the prison-house her snow-white 
garments stirred. 

What if to heathen lands afar the Word of Life 
he bear, 

In that high work of sacrifice still Woman hath 
her share : 

Beside the couch where life yet holds the une- 
qual strife with death, 

She bends the supplicating knee, and breathes 
the prayer of faith ; 



176 WOMAN. 

Her voice uplifts the drooping lid, brightens the 
glazing eye, 

And nerves the helpless arm, with strength of 
other days gone by. 

Such power is hers, as when on high, beams 
forth the unveiled sun, 

And with its genial radiance dispels the vapors 
dun ; 

A thousand beauties spring to life, sweet blos- 
soms wave and nod, 

The night-dews glitter diamond-like upon the 
fresh, green sod ; 

A song-burst rises to the sky from out the trem- 
bling trees, 

And silvery clouds drift slowly on before the 
morning breeze. 

Such gifts are "Woman's priceless dower, yet, 

sisters mine, how few 
Dare take the precious burden up, and Woman's 

true work do ! 



WOMAN. 177 

As ruler, poet, prophet, priest, it may not be our 

lot 
To stand before the admiring world, but in the 

humblest cot 
Is space enough, and work enough, and prize 

enough to tempt 
The veriest sluggard to arise in generous attempt. 
How few of us delight to hear great Nature's 

choral hymn, 
That flows incessant day by day, and through 

the midnight dim, — 
The ever-mingling chime of cloud and stream 

and wind-swept tree, 
Sounding the chant of Labor forth in ceaseless 

psalmody ! 
Poor, pretty playthings ! carelessly we fleet the 

golden hours, 
And question not the Autumn fruit, have we 

the Summer flowers. 

12 



178 WOMAN 

But if perchance we sometimes toil, like that 

good dame of old. 
Whose hands took up the distaff and the spin- 
dle in their hold, 
Who rose, while yet the night lay dark, her 

maiden's share to cull, 
And with her hands wrought willingly, and 

sought out flax and wool, — 
Unlike her, seldom do we ope our mouths with 

wisdom's lore, 
And rarely for our virtues' sake our names are 

mentioned o'er. 
Plying the broom with watchful care, we look 

not up to see 
How fair a garland waits for us, true laborers if 

we be, 
Like him in Bunyan's vision seen, who, ever 

gazing down 
Upon his hoarded dust, saw not the angel and 

the crown ; 



WOMAN. 179 

We gaze upon our looms' gay work with glow- 
ing colors rife, 

Nor think how fast the shuttles fly that weave 
our web of life ; 

We heed not that we sew a shroud, with count- 
less stitches fine, 

To bury our best talents in, which else might 
brightly shine ; 

Or whether we have swept them out along with 
household dust, 

Or hidden them in very shame, food for the moth 
and rust, — 

Ah ! surely there shall come a day, when mincing 
ladies fair 

Shall cease to don the rainbow-robe and smooth 
the shining hair, 

But standing up, all pale and chill hear the dread 
question given — 

Where are the talents lent to you on usury for 
Heaven ! 



180 WOMAN. 

i 

Oh, mother, daughter, sister, wife, ours is a 

noble lot! 
May we not make in life's long way a golden, 

sunny spot? 
May we not call Heaven's blessing down upon 

each favored head, 
And bid its choicest, freshest flowers around our 

pathway spread? 
Whoever leads sweet girlhood's steps in Being's 

early dawn, 
Elastic with the undimmed hopes and strength 

of glowing morn, 
On you, what fearful burden rests, — 'tis yours 

to point the way 
In which her untried feet shall walk, till even- 
ing twilight gray ; 
' T is yours, to guide her glad young soul where 

crystal waters flow, — 
Where song-birds send their music far, — and 

fadeless garlands grow; 



WOMAN. 181 

'Tis yours, to bid her cull those flowers and 

taste the precious draught, 
Which never yet palled on the sense of those 

who deeply quaffed. 
Teach her, how bright and beautiful, yet strange 

and solemn too, 
Is the appointed labor set by Heaven for her to 

do ; 
Teach her, with reverent care, to lead the falter- 
ing steps of age, 
With holy calm or gladsome smile, grief's 

tempests to assuage ; 
Teach her to lighten man's rude toil with 

cheering word and look, 
As sportive dimples glide along the singing 

summer brook; 
Teach her, the mission of the breeze and golden 

beam is hers, 
As one streams down the meadow sward, and 

one the branches stirs ; 



182 WOMAN. 

So may she brighten all the world, so move the 
world's great heart, 

And bear in every generous thought and every 
deed, her part. 

If ye would teach her soul aright, clip not its 
pinions strong, 

But give them to God's open sky, in frequent 
flight and long ; 

Not then will Woman idly rest, a pretty, house- 
hold dove, 

When fit to be the Eagle's mate, and cleave 
the clouds above ; 

But strive with him in noblest work, and with 
him win at last, 

When all the struggle, all the toil, and weari- 
ness are past. 



LIGHT FOR THE AGED. 



Zechaeiah, xiv. 7. 
AT EVENING TIME IT SHALL BE LIGHT, 



LIGHT FOE, THE AGED. 

children's children are the crown of old men ; 
and the glory of children are their fathers. 

Proverbs, xvii. 6. 

An old man sat in the sunset-gold, 

By the door of a cottage low ; 
His soft, white hair, his reverent air, 

His holy smile, all told 

His work was finished below. 

Children played at the old man's feet, 

Three gentle, blue-eyed girls ; 
Their mother had played in that cottage shade, 

With footstep light and fleet, 
And waving golden curls. 



186 LIGHT FOR THE AGED. 

His heart was warm toward that little band, 

Bright in the setting sun ; 
And he said, ' Oh Lord ! I trust thy word, 

I see the promised land, 

And I know that my work is done. 

1 1 thank thee for the pleasant ways 

In which my feet have trod ; 
I bless for all, both great and small, 

But most for these, I praise 
Thy goodness, oh ! my God ! ' 

Then a matron stepped from the cottage-door, 

A matron fair to see ; 
Her hand she laid on the old man's head : 

1 Father, I thank God o'er and o'er, 
But bless him most for thee ! ' 



LIGHT FOR THE AGED. 187 



BEHOLD, I AND THE CHILDREN WHOM THE LORD HATH 

GIVEN ME. 

Isaiah, viii. 18. 

How many household bands 

With love-united hands, 
Father, at thy great judgment shall we see ? 

How many parents bring 

A costly offering 
Of all their children, Sovereign Lord, to thee ? 

Alas ! alas ! how few, 

To their high mission true, 
Have taught these gifts of God his love to seek! 

And stripped at last, forlorn, 

Their once bright treasures gone, 
They journey on toward Heaven alone and weak. 

Not all, not all have cast 
Their mercies on the blast; 



188 LIGHT FOR THE AGED. 

Not all neglected the young spirits sent 
For them to guard and teach, 
Till they together reach 

The realm of endless pleasure and content. 

Oh! joy untold, unknown, 

To stand before the throne, 
With brow uplifted that all Heaven may see, 

And say, ' Behold ! I come, 

Lord, to thy glorious home, 
With all the children thou hast given me ! ' 



LIGHT FOR THE AGED. 



189 



THE MERCY OF THE LORD IS FROM EVERLASTING UNTO 

EVERLASTING UPON THEM THAT FEAR HIM. 

Psalms, ciii. 17. 



The Lord's arm is not shortened, 
That He can no longer save ; 

Nor His ear grown dull and heavy, 
When he would compassion have. 

But His mercy is forever 

Showered upon the true endeavor. 

In the everlasting future 

Shines His mercy like a star, 

And the aged saint beholds it 
Light his pathway from afar; 

Light him cheerly to the dawning 

Of the clear celestial morning. 



190 LIGHT FOR THE AGED. 



YEA, THOU SHALT SEE THY CHILDREN'S CHILDREN. 

Psalms, cxxviii 6. 



Young children climb my knee, 
And kiss with gentle lips my farrowed brow ; 

They bring fresh flowers to me, 
And ask me for the tale I told but now. 
They love me none the less because they lead 
My footsteps o'er the mead. 

There's much to cheer my way, 
Though the first strength of my right arm be 
gone; 
Though I see not the ray 
Of eve, nor hear the minstrelsy of morn, 
Blessings are round my darkened pathway yet : 
Lord, thou dost not forget ! 



LIGHT FOR THE AGED. 191 



SURELY GOODNESS AND MERCY SHALL FOLLOAV ME ALL 

THE DAYS OF MY LIFE ; AND I WILL DWELL IN THE 

HOUSE Of THE LORD FOREVER. 

Psalms, xxiii G. 

The soul can never know decay, 
Though darkened oft its radiant portals seem, 
Still heavenly glories on its vision stream, 

To light its way. 

We well may envy those who wait 
In meekness, all their worldly labors done, 
The final summons of the Holy One 

Up to His gate. 

Ye white-haired elders of the hills, 
Sitting at even in the narrow door 
Until your shadows span the sunny floor ; 

Life's common ills 



192 LIGHT FOR THE AGED. 

So seem to pass you harmless by; 
As I have heard the tempest ringing loud 
His stormy anthem in the tattered cloud, 

Far up on high, 

While on the still, green earth below, 
Lay the bright hush of calm and perfect peace ; — 
Ye ancients, thus the storms of being cease 

On ye to blow ! 

I see you in the darkening door 
From which the evening light is slow withdrawn, 
I almost think that with it you'll be gone, 

To come no more ; — 

That with that gently parting ray 
You will glide forth and silent be absorbed 
Into the glory of God's sun, full-orbed, 

To dwell alway. 



LIGHT FOR THE AGED. 193 



INSTEAD OF THY FATHERS SHALL BE THY CHILDREN. 

Psalms, xlv. 16. 

Not without comfort pass the old away; — 
The grass above them may in silence grow, 

The serene heavens smile the live-long day, 
The streams anear them pass in gentle flow ; 

But yet for them who sleep in stillness there, 
Once the great spirit of the world was stirred : 

In vain no lip e'er breathed the common air ; 
In vain was never uttered thought or word. 

As e'en the insect's wing may touch the lake 
To countless circles, so the humblest life 

In the vast ocean of mankind will wake 
Its own peculiar circle, clear and rife. 



13 



194 LIGHT FOR THE AGED. 



CAST ME NOT OFF IN THE TIME OF OLD AGE ; FORSAKE 

ME NOT WHEN MY STRENGTH FAILETH. 

Psalms, lxxi. 9. 

' I am weary, my Father, my strength is departed, 
Along my lone way I progress, heavy-hearted ; 
The flowers that I gathered in youth's pleasant 

morning, 
No more I discover my pathway adorning : 
Forsake me not now in my latest endeavor, 
For I long to be with Thee and love Thee 

forever.' 



LIGHT FOR THE AGED. 195 



WAIT ON THE LORD : BE OF GOOD COURAGE, AND HE 

SHALL STRENGTHEN THY HEART ; WAIT, I SAY, ON 

THE LORD. 

Psalms, xxvii. 14. 

1 Oh ! faithful old pilgrim, be patient and cheer- 
ful, 

It needs not thy way should be lonely or tear- 
ful; 

Wait the Lord's perfect pleasure, He cometh to 
strengthen 

Thy feet for the path, as the night shadows 
lengthen ; 

He will keep and sustain thee, and meet thee at 
even, 

To bear thee in peace to thy bright home in 
Heaven ! ' 



196 



LIGHT FOR THE AGED 



THE LORD IS THE PORTION OF MINE INHERITANCE. 

Psalms, xvi. 5. 

Let the oppressed take heart, 

The troubled soul be still, 
Forever on his children's part, 

Moves the Almighty will. 
What though the cup of life 

"With bitterness o'erflow, 
Faith in His love o'ertriumphs strife, 

And bids sweet peace to flow. 
'Tis not by His command 

That griefs around us press, 
If we but lean upon His hand, 

He comforts our distress. 
Whate'er our lot may be, 

He strengthens and sustains, 
Oh, Lord ! increase our love for Thee, 

Till naught but Love remains. 



LIGHT FOR THE AGED. 197 



THE HEART KNOWETH HIS OWN BITTERNESS. 

Proverbs, xiv. 10. 

When the pitcher by the fountain 

Is broken on the stone, 
The shattered wheel at the cistern 

Is motionless and lone ; 
When the light in which we trusted 

Goes out ere day appears, 
And the eye can see no farther 

For weariness and tears ; 
When the hands are clasped together, 

Though the heart is stern and cold, 
Like statues praying dumbly 

On the kingly tombs of old ; 
Sweep! sweep! sweep! 

Oh ! cold wind, through the tree, 
Thou canst not be so hard to bear 
As the soul's adversity. 



198 LIGHT FOR THE AGED. 



AND HE SHOWED ME A PURE RIVER OF WATER OF LIFE, 

CLEAR AS CRYSTAL. 

Rev. xxii. 1. 

As one, upon a bed of pain, 
Thirsts for a cooling draught 

Of water from the crystal fount, 
At which in youth he quaffed, 

And turns away with burning lip, 

Nor deigns the proffered bowl to sip, — 

So he, who once hath tasted joys 
Better than earth has given, 

Still sighs to grasp them fresh and pure 
In their own native heaven ; 

And life no more can weave a chain, 

To bind him in its toils again. 



LIGHT FOR THE AGED. 199 



I HAVE BEEN YOUNG, AND NOW I AM OLD, YET HAVE I 

NOT SEEN THE RIGHTEOUS FORSAKEN, NOR HIS SEED 

BEGGING BREAD. 

Psalms, xxxvii. 25. 

There have been tears forever falling, falling, 
From weeping eyes since Eden's gates were 
closed ; 
Like mournful sparrow from the house-top 
calling, 
Some broken heart its wail has interposed 
Forever in the universal chorus 
Of gladness which the blue sky singeth o'er us. 

But never was the righteous one forsaken, 
Though often in temptation's meshes left; 

Never from him was aid divine yet taken, 
Although of earthly comforting bereft ; 

None saw his children at the rich man's portal 

In beggary abase their souls immortal. 



200 LIGHT FOR THE AGED. 

There have been child-stript fathers, whose 

wrung spirit 

Could hardly kiss the sore afflicting rod, 

But the broad earth his children shall inherit, 

Whose onward way is pointed out by God : 

Oh ! mourning parent, didst thou love these 

rather 
Than Him, that He thus came thy flowers to 
gather ? 

Fear Him, and he will love thee for the fearing ; 
Seek not to choose in blindness thine own 
way: 
Listen, and He will teach thee for the hearing, 
How thou shalt walk, till evening twilight 
gray; 
Thy soul shall dwell at ease, nor faint, nor falter, 
Till angels bring thee to Jehovah's altar. 



LIGHT FOR THE AGED. 201 

CONSIDER THE LILIES. 

Matthew, vi. 28. 

As from its lowly mossy bed 
The violet rears its modest head, 
And looks with sweet confiding eye 
Up to the distant azure sky; 
So may our hearts forever be 
Trustful, with all humility. 
And like the lily of the vale, 
Wooed by each aromatic gale, 
Nodding before the fanning breeze 
Waking the leaf-harps in the trees ; 
So may our hearts forever be 
Trustful, with all humility. 
As bends the wild fern to the blast, 
Nor rises till the storm be passed, 
Unfearing, while its form is bowed, 
The crashing of the thunder-cloud; 
So may our hearts forever be 
Trustful, with all humility. 



202 LIGHT FOR THE AGED. 



WHEN THIS CORRUPTIBLE SHALL HAVE PUT ON INCOR- 

RUPTION, AND THIS MORTAL SHALL HAVE PUT ON 

IMMORTALITY ; THEN SHALL BE BROUGHT TO PASS THE 

SAYING THAT IS WRITTEN, DEATH IS SWALLOWED UP 

IN VICTORY. 

1 Cor. xv. 54. 

The seed flung in the clod 
We know at last will rise a glorious flower, 

The worm that creeps the sod 
Will soar on gorgeous wing in future hour ; 

But never yet was change 

So sudden, bright and strange, 
As when the man assumes the angel's dower. 

Only one half we see 
Of this transfiguration of the soul, 

The waves of mystery 
Straightway across the radiant visions roll ; 

We only feel and know 

That parted spirits go, 
From earth's gay fragments to Heaven's glorious 
whole. 



LIGHT FOR THE AGED. 203 

But kneeling by the couch 
Where hoary Age the final summons waits, 

Oftimes a mystic touch 
Seems to unlock the everlasting gates ; 

And awe-struck we behold 

The streaming sea of gold, 
That ebbs and flows round the celestial states. 

We may not enter in 
The mighty portals whence these glories stream, 

But those gray hairs begin 
To wear the halo of the heavenly beam ; 

And nigher now and nigher 

Approach the angelic choir, 
Till in the morn of God dissolves life's wondrous 
dream. 

Oh, Life, the weak and frail, 
How wither all thy trembling Summer flowers ! 
Thy half-blown buds, how pale 



204 LIGHT FOR THE AGED. 

When seen beside the amaranthine bowers! 

Thy wave, Eternity, 

And thine, Infinity, 
Engulph at once our fond and fleeting hours. 

It is no Bourne of dread, 
That dim unknown conclusion of our days, 

Towards which our footsteps tread, — 
Only the final parting of the ways 

So faintly we discern, 

That backwards oft we turn 
And fix on nearer things the baffled gaze. 

Mount up, enfranchised soul ! 
Oh ! free and fetterless, thy chains are riven ! 

Not a funereal toll, 
But a triumph peal bears thee to Heaven : 

Upward thy pinions rush 

Where streams of*music gush, 
And lo ! thou stand' st among the Blest, forgiven ! 



205 



A PRAYER FOR REMEMBRANCE. 

How shall I be remembered, gentle friends, 
When o'er this perished form long grass hath 

grown ? 
When other love for mine shall make amends, 
And other voice for mine, then hushed, atone ? 
How shall I be remembered ? A sharp cry 
Against forgetfulness my soul sends forth, 
And I disdain to hide from others' eye 
This witness of the soul's immortal birth. 



206 A PRAYER FOR REMEMBRANCE. 

Remember me, not by the gush of song, 
Fitful and sudden as the mountain wind ; 
When others strike the lyre-chords clear and 

strong, 
Let it not bring my image to your mind. 
Not by the memory of the love I bore 
Towards ye, the love that never shall return ; 
It shall not fall upon your pathway more, — 
All vainly for its sunshine shall ye yearn. 
Forget my fondest greetings ! when I pressed 
Your hands in mine ; forget all accents soft, 
All kisses, looks of love, and how I blessed 
Your every coming, came ye e'er so oft. 
If ever I have done you service sweet, 
Have gathered wild-flowers for you in the wood, 
Or guided through the meadow-paths your feet, 
Or 'neath the forest-arches with you stood, — 
Forget it ! Never from the Silent Land 
Shall I come back to serve you here again ; 
Not with vain longings would I have you stand 



A PRAYER FOR REMEMBRANCE. 207 

In my loved haunts, and gaze around with pain. 
If ever to your side I 've noiseless crept, 
When sickness kept stern vigil o'er your bed ; 
Or ministered to you, and prayed and wept, 
Or pillowed in my arms your aching head, — 
I charge you, heed it not! Long years may 

pass, 
The unseen bonds of pain may bind you 

down ; 
But think not of me then, dear friends, alas! 
I shall not come to smile away death's frown. 
Fold in my hands, across my pulseless breast, 
The page where my impassioned words are 

stored ; 
Lay down with me in everlasting rest, 
The strains through which my restless soul was 

poured. 
But yet forget me not ! oh, hear my prayer ! 
If ever I have cheered a fainting heart, 
Or lightened one worn spirit's weight of care, 



208 A PRAYER FOR REMEMBRANCE. 

Or in the hour of trial borne a part, — 
If ever, erring though my footsteps be, 
I led another wand'rer toward the Light, 
By such as these, dear friends, remember me, 
By such, recall my image to your sight. 
If ever by temptation hard beset, 
I prayed and conquered ; if I flung aside 
My dearest hopes and joys, without regret 
For that which could not be, or tears, or pride ; 
If ever, on Faith's altar I laid down 
Youth's glorious visions, passing Paradise, 
Love's flower-buds, the Poet's laurel crown, 
And bade Heaven's flame consume the sacri- 
fice, — 
Let such the token be ! Not unto tears, 
And unavailing sighs, and bitter grief, 
Would I come back through long recurring years ; 
But as a light for sorrow's quick relief, 
As a bright ray of courage, shining clear, 
As a fresh hope when hope is overthrown, 



A PRAYER FOR REMEMBRANCE. 209 

As a new star in midnight darkness drear, — 

Such let my memory be, when I am gone ; 

Or rather all oblivion : few have seen 

How I have striven with a host of foes — 

Striven and won, and from the dark Has Been, 

Soared upward to the Present of repose. 

And if ye have not known how I have wrought, 

Then let my life a thing forgotten be ; 

If of my tears and triumphs ye know naught, 

Oh then, dear friends, no more remember me! 



14 



LETTEES. 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 

The statement may be made respecting all the 
persons to whom the following letters were addressed, 
which the editor is requested to make by one of them, 
that a natural shrinking has been felt at the idea of 
revealing to the eyes of strangers the words of a 
friend, penned with all the freedom of confiding inter- 
course. No temptation would induce one to overstep 
the path of fidelity to the dead, while allusions to the 
living, inwrought with the correspondence, increased 
the difficulty. Yet it was felt to be essential to retain, 
to the limit that fidelity and honor would allow, the 
delicate finish of personal expression, which constitutes 
one of the charms of these fresh, spirited, and genial 
letters. 



212 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 

The Editor can desire nothing more, than that the 
task of selection from the large number of letters 
received, may be appreciated with the same generous 
confidence with which the friends of Mary M. Chase 
have submitted packages of correspondence, with no 
other restriction than that which his own judgment 
imposed. Universal approval is hardly expected. Pas- 
sages may occur, which one or another reader will 
doubt the wisdom of publishing ; but it is thought that 
more have been omitted which competent critics would 
say were ; too good to be lost.' 

The letters towards the close of the series, ad- 
dressed to a gentleman, were written in the unreserve 
of true friendship, and he has consented to their pub- 
lication, in the trust that no inappropriate miscon- 
struction will be made. 



LETTERS. 



LETTER I. 

Albany, 1845. 

I cannot live another day without writing to you, 
darling that you are. I have conned over heartfully a 
12mo of letters to you since I received yours, but 
could not write them, for I have been attending the 
dentist so constantly, with such interregnums of tooth- 
ache and nerve -ache, that though the spirit was willing 
the hand was weak. Such times as I have had, and 
am having ! I am going to write out my experience 
of dentistry. In short, I have had a fit of the violent 
fidgets, intermittent with the tantrums, and for real 
suffering — go out and shut the door, ye memories of 
all former toothaches ! And now, dear, what did you 
apologize for, that you had not ere this spoiled a sheet 
of paper for my sake ? You know it offends me to 
have one write me for duty's sake. Once for all, if 
your heart does not will to write, do not touch a pen — 
do not say between your teeth, 4 Poor Mary ! she won- 
ders why I do not write — she will think I have forgotten 
her ! ' Lay not that flattering unction to your soul. If 



214 LETTERS. 

you choose to forget Mary, Mary chooses to be for- 
gotten. If you do not write with more on your mind 
than you have time to say, with a feeling of shaking 
hands with me, fragments of conversation on lip, — do not 
write. That is all. Whew ! what a flourish of trum- 
pets ! Well, you never mind me. Emma and Mr. 
Hathaway have dined with us. I'll tell you how. We 
were going to have apple dumplings for dinner, and 
them only. Just as I was marching into the dining- 
room with the dumplings, with Julia holding my apron, 
Ellen tugging at Julia's frock, and Eddy and Eggy 
holding fast to her arms, I looked up, and beheld Mr. 
Hathaway and Em. just driving up. I preserved suffi- 
cient presence of mind to set down the platter on the 
table instead of the floor, and rushed up to the door to 
welcome them. Imagine our true-hearted greeting ! But 
there was a Mordecai sitting at the gate of my palace of 
pleasure in the shape of — an apple dumpling! Shades 
of Apicius, Ude,and Dr. Kitchener! what a dinner for a 
bride ! The clocks were striking the noon with ' twelve 
great shameless shocks of sound.' One moment and 
the markets would be closed. Julia ran through the 
streets to the butcher stalls. Fortune favors the brave, 
and she returned in triumph, bringing captive in her 
train a blood-red pile of beef-steak. There was a 
splendid Otsego cheese just arrived, and plenty of de- 
licious mince-pie in the pantry, and so our improvised 
dinner was capital. You know the rule for frying 
steaks: ' If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere 



LETTERS. 215 

well it were done quickly.' Ours was of the quickest. 
That afternoon, we had delicious Chatham frost ap- 
ples, and the best grapes in the world. Mr. and Mrs. 
Hathaway then made a call, and came to an early tea, 
which we spirited up to surprise them withal, and 
Jeannie came to tea, and indeed we were ' merry in 
parlor and hall.' 

In the afternoon Mr. H. said so kindly, c I know 
you girls are pining for an hour's chat alone, and T wish 
to get some books, so I will leave you.' Dear Emma! 
she stole her arm into mine, and said, ' Come, sister, 
let us go up alone to your room.' We went, and 
cheek to cheek, heart to heart, sat together and talked 
' so happily, so hopefully.' We talked of the wedding, 
of dear, dear Vermont, of all and eveiy of the loved 
ones there, then came back to Buffalo, and blessed 
you, darling, though you knew it not, and the tears 
which true happiness sometimes awakens, came and 
danced, though joyously, in our eyes. I should have 
gone up to Lansingburgh, had it not been for my 
teeth ; but oh ! dear, I will not speak of them again, 
even though I have some horrid poison ground into 
one this moment, eating the poor life out of it, for 
to-morrow's sake. I have a dear little story about the 
Alumnse to tell you. The resident members here 
have formed a society, ' The Spirit of 76,' which meet 
at the Academy every fortnight, each sending before 
some pretty thing of her own writing, and these are 
read aloud for the edification of the girls, and a few 



216 LETTERS. 

friends, such as Dr. Pohlman, &c. Our first meeting 
was last Saturday. It was delightful. The library was 
well filled, and at the conclusion Dr. P. gave us a short, 
impromptu address, most capitally expressed. The 
next is on the twelfth of December. Oh ! that you 
could be here ! Will you send me Ellen's letter, to be 
read then ? I forgot to mention that my document on 
Saturday was on l The Sheep ! ' Fact ! Do you want 
to hear an extract from the poetical part of it ? ' Down 
in the green meadow how happy I am. Right straight 
before me is a dear little lamb. Eating as fast as it 
ever can cram. Sweet lamb ! ' 



LETTER II. 

Chatham, 1844. 
Mary, Mary Allston, — 

Don't blame me for not answering your dear letters 
before, for broad, and long, and deep have been my 
afflictions since their reception, preventing this delight- 
ful duty. Firstly, secondly, and lastly, we had com- 
pany all the time ; people that I never saw before, and 
old friends, and scholars' friends, &c. Then we have 
had a constant family of twenty-two, which, you know, 
devour an unconscionable quantity of bread and cheese. 
And thirdly, seventhly, and fifthly, I have had an idle 
fit, and pretended it was neuralgia. Just remember me 



LETTERS. 217 

last winter, when the weather was sour and I equally 
so, and you will see at a glance that 1 am quite excu- 
sable on this last score. 

I have written to Emma. You will forgive me for 
answering hers first ; there was no first in my heart. 
I have sent a little poem to the Planetarium. This is 
all that I have done in the literary line for many weeks. 
How I wanted you with me two days since in the 
woods ! It was a truly lovely day in autumn. As I 
was a little of an invalid, I enveloped myself in a warm 
shawl and sallied out with Rover. Across the meadow 
we went to the pleasant forest, and there, in flower- 
gathering, and squirrel- watching, and sweet fancies, 
and idle dreaming under the pines, we whiled away the 
afternoon. I sat down at last and began a letter to 
you. I talked to you, — I called. No one answered. 
You did not come. There were all things green and 
beautiful, and under almost every tree was a squirrel- 
hole. Chestnut burrs lay all around, cut off by the 
sharp little teeth of these arrant poachers, but the sa- 
vory nuts were gone — clean as a sub-treasury. I 
shall remember the stroll long, for the fierce drought 
that has parched meadow and pasture, and spared only 
the green-wood, is now broken, and hour after hour 
the slow rain drops, drops ceaselessly. When shall I 
again go forth ? Was it not too bad, Mary, that with 
all those whom I love, not one can ramble out with 
me ? But I have the comfort of Rover. 1 shall ex- 
ract from the letter I wrote you there : 



218 LETTERS. 

4 Of all the delicious states of feeling that ever cross 
our monotonous pathway, commend me to a woodland 
reverie in a sunny day of autumn. To sit on the 
warm green turf, just at the edge of a noble old wood, 
and feel the grateful glow of the unclouded sunshine, 
while the rustling of the leaves is in your ears ; to 
watch the slow, rocking descent of one brown leaf 
after another, and listen to the quick dropping of the 
acorns, each with its own distinct little crashing ; to 
hear the short, satisfied chirpings of the numberless 
small birds that swarm on the bushes, each bush bear- 
ing a double burden, of berries and of birds ; to 
note the ceaseless labors of the wild bee and the ant, 
the busy crickets, the careless butterflies ; yet neither 
to think, moralize, nor meditate upon either of these 
in particular, nor upon other things in general ; but 
merely to exist, conscious that you are somehow re- 
markably well off, — and not very certain how it came 
about, — this is a true woodland reverie.' 

Enough of this. The sun has set and risen since 
my sheet was begun, and another must set and rise 
before it can be mailed. You will think by this time 
that I have forgotten you, Mary, — you will make new 
friends, — your mind will be much occupied with your 
cares and duties, — you will grow staid and womanly, 
— and absence and time will do their work, and so I 
fear that I, your Mary Chase, will be unremembered. 
There are a thousand things to make this probable. 
But here in my retired home, where all my thoughts 



LETTERS. 219 

are free, and none to share them, where I see almost 
no one, and none to whom I can turn as I can to her 
who sat beside me day after day at the Academy, and 
humored my willfulness, and overlooked my many 
weaknesses and infirmities, and was my good angel in 
all things, — how can I ever for a day forget you ? 
At our age protestations are childish, yet my heart 
yearns toward you, and refuses to be comforted. 
When we parted, Mary, I lost a bright gleam that had 
so long shone along my way. I cannot think of that 
hour without tears. You were the last I saw of all, 
that long intercourse had made dear to me ; when the 
door closed between us, it shut out forever the bright 
fairy land of friendship, of love, which your presence 
had created. 

What are you reading? 1 get very little to read 
now, and it is not always such as I would choose. 
Arabella Stuart and Arrah Neil, by James. The last 
are the best of his I ever read ; but I do not like his 
books, and never read them when I can get any thing 
else. I have been re-reading the lives of the Ladies 
Russel and Guyon, and very much do I love to read 
them, so holy, so sanctified were their lives. But I have 
just finished William Howitt's Boy's Countiy Book, a 
work truly after my own heart. Why cannot every one 
be a Howitt ? Such pictures ! Such a love of the beau- 
tiful ! Such a kindly spirit! I went away directly 
across the water, and saw the daring, brave boy, in 
all those scenes so sweetly painted. It tells me the 



220 LETTERS. 

secret of his exquisite writings. It shows whence 
spring his genius. I want to read it to you. Then 
I have read the marvellous history of Puss in Boots, 
wherein the hero who whilom so valorously pocketed 
the ' rhino,' appears in boots the size of a tun, a coat 
and pants, and a bag on his back as big as a small 
house, ' all red, blue and yellow, like a map.' 

And now I must finish this scrawl. Consider it, Mary, 
but as the troubled foam floating away from a spring 
that is very troubled at times, but may at last become 
purified by agitation. There has been many a bright 
gem and costly gift thrown down into its depths, but, 
alas ! they never again have come to the sunlight. It 
may be that not till its waters are all dried away, they 
shall be known to dwell there. It will then be too 
late. That you may be very happy, is the wish of 

Mary. 



LETTERS. 221 



LETTER III. 

Albany. 

Where art thou this even, sister ? for the clashing spring-time 

rain 
Cometh with a falling cadence, pattering on the window-pane. 
Cold and cheerless, cold and cheerless is the twilight gathering 

near, 
And the bell with mournful tolling, falleth now upon mine ear. 

What doeth now my sister ? She is not writing 
alone, as I. Is she gay and very gladsome ? And in 
the merriment does she say, ' I wish Mary Chase were 
here this evening ? ' I am fain to think so, for I be- 
lieve I am e'en now in thy heart. Shall I thank thee, 
my best beloved, for that letter ? That letter of letters, 
that we read, and laughed, and wept over, and re-read, 
to weep and laugh again. 

It is proposed to alter the law allowing bearers of 
gold medals from the first department to become mem- 
bers of the Alumnae before graduating. This law has 
caused great discussion among the new class. There 
has been much unpleasant remark lately about exclud- 
ing some of the best writers from abroad from writing 
examination compositions, so as to give the Albany 
girls the better chance. This is brought up by Judge 
Q , but will not, I think, find much support. Mr. 



222 LETTERS. 



notified Mary Mather to-day that perhaps she 



would not be allowed to compete. And if he did not 
pull a hot cap over his head, then never did man. For 
Mary's Indian was roused, and in no gracious terms 
did she respond to his words. He spoke of her supe- 
rior age and advantages, &c. She pointed out many 
girls older than she, and inquired if it was considered 
superior to the Academy to live in a log-house and eat 
johnny-cake, talk Chippeway and ride wild horses, — 
such having been her life, — with only seven months 
of indifferent school since she was eleven years old, 
and so on. By the way, have you seen her ' Siege of 
Troy ' ? I will try and send it to you. A capital take- 
off on the Trojans, and never was anything so popular. 
Published in four books, one a week. Trojans have 
bit off their finger-nails in vexation. 

I must tell you about the Paper last week. I was 
sick all the forenoon with headache. The editors 
came around to me about ten o'clock, in despair. I 
gathered up my aching bones, found a pencil and pa- 
per, actually wrote the most comic editorial I ever 
got up, and a lecture on Education, delivered before 
the class in Butler's Analogy on Monday morning, by 
their long tried and much enduring teacher, and rum- 
maged up a sketch and two poems. Sarah wrote a 
poem, and Mag the most inimitable, ridiculous thing 
in the world, and the Paper was read with peal upon 
peal of applause. No one ever knew who wrote all 
the articles, and so it went off well enough. 



LETTERS. 223 



LETTER IV 



And now, Mary, darling, comes your turn. How 
does my whole soul feel relieved, when, flinging aside 
these sheets of foolscap, I take up my dainty french 
paper, and with a fresh pen trace words that your eye 
will see to-morrow. You will read them in blessed 
Vermont ! And first let me tell you that I write with 
tears in my ears, — oh goodness ! my eyes I mean, — 
and a cologne bottle in my hand, for I was out at a 
party last night, and have the most despairing of head- 
aches. That party ! Well, if my head does ache 
now, I laughed last night. You must know cousin Ned 
has just been married, and Mrs. Frank gave out invi- 
tations for a family gathering, and as I was a sort of 
stray sheep of the house of Israel here, I was included. 
Under such circumstances were we not merry ! I did 
not dare to touch any ' refreshments,' with the ghost of 
my dear friend and companion Dyspepsia before my 
eyes, save and except ice-cream, and because I took only 
that, Molly came and put a napkin under my chin, where 
she held it, while Ned stood before me with a platter 
containing a huge pyramid of cream, and Mrs. Frank 
with a great spoon was bent upon putting it into my 
mouth. Just picture to yourself my helpless situation ! 
Nevertheless I was as amiable as possible, and mere- 
ly flung my lemonade at Ned, boxed Molly's ears with 



224 LETTERS. 

my spoon, and tied the napkin on Mrs. Frank's mouth. 
But oh ! how my head aches ! 

It is as lonely here as a dragon's cave, and I am as 
cross as the dragon-master of the cave, for every child 
is away except Eggy and me. The very flies on the 
window creep about as if stricken with paralysis — and 
the clock has stopped. Oh ! this wretched morning ! I 
slid off my bed with a sigh and groan, felt my way to 
the wash-bowl in which I immersed my tangled hair, 
(is not your hair always tangled when you feel cross ?) 
and crept into my wrapper (Em and I have them alike) 
and so thrusting my feet into some slipshod sort of 
buskins, shuffled down stairs. Not a soul up but 
Biddy, and a regular snore in the second story. So I 
stretched myself on the sofa with the eternal cologne 
bottle in my hand, and tried to sleep. Could not. 
Breakfasted at last on transparent coffee. Took the 
couch again till ten, and then with wretched feelings 
flounced out to lecture. So goes the time. But I will 
turn over a new leaf when I get home with Rover and 
Tib. 

There is not a scrap of humanity in the house, save 
me, and I have grown so thin that I am invisible to the 
naked eye. There is not an ounce of adipose tissue 
in my frame. I have been reading a host of things 
lately to dissipate my weariness : Praed's Poems, — 
humorous and pathetic, graceful and fervent ; Lord's 
Poems, the subject of such bitter criticism and much 



LETTERS. 225 

controversy ; Wilson's Miscellany, full of tears and 
smiles, — the most charming essays in the world, with 
sunlight passages of wonderful beauty ; Willis's Dashes 
at High Life ; Miss Barrett's Poems, and divers and 
sundry others of less note. If you've not read Miss 
Barrett's, do so, I pray. There ought to be a profes- 
sorship in each of our colleges for expounding them. 
They are wonderful. I have re-read them twenty 
times; they are 'the fire-heart' of poetiy. I would 
rather be the author of l Crowned and Buried,' than of 
any other poem I ever read. In this, Miss Barrett's 
book, are told without complaint, with careful smiling 
and untroubled look, the deepest sufferings that woman's 
heart may bear and not break. She has not one line, 
saying that woman has a soul to feel wrong, but one 
cannot but see that her poetry is the result of much 
grieving and many tears. Truly may woman exclaim 
with her, 4 World's use is cold, world's love is vain ! ' 
Mary, darling, I wish you could come and sit down by 
me at tea to-night. I shall be all alone. Wilt come ? 
I will make thee the richest cup of Pekoe, sweeten 
with sugar as white as the top of Caucasus, drop into 
it three great drops of cream, and then give it thee 
with a kiss and a slice of red-hot toast. You know hot 
dainties are my passion. 

When you think of me, let it be ' as of one ' with a 
paler pale-face, deeply shadowed eyes, a voice dwin- 
dled down to a faint afFetuoso, and a hand with that 
cologne bottle. Let whoever would win me, do it 
15 



226 LETTERS. 



through the medium of the genuine Eau-de-Rhein. 
Oh ! how my head aches ! Good bye, darling, I '11 
grumble no longer, and if what I have said could be 
audible to you, I 'd say, let it go in at one ear and out 
at the other. 



LETTER V. 

Chatham, 1845. 
Sister Molly, — 

Excuse this pen, I can find no other. How seemeth 
thy first Sabbath in Buffalo ? Art wishing to see old 
faces now ? I am fain to believe it. Did I not let thee 
go away right cheerily at last ? But when I came 
back, the room seemed so lonely ! The breath of thy 
flowers was yet there — the very echo of thy voice. 
My heart was with thee, for all night I lay grieving, 
and could not sleep. It is very extravagant for me to 
feel so strongly on all subjects, but I cannot help it 
now. 

Let me tell you of the dream I had the other after- 
noon, whether waking or sleeping, it matters not. 

I dreamed that the whole world was turned into a 
great pickle-pot ! And the contents thereof were vari- 
ous. There was a vast number of cucumbers packed 
in, helter-skelter, and of all sorts and sizes. Some had 
evidently grown in the sunshine and honey-dew, and 
had been nourished in the choicest part of the garden, 



LETTERS. 227' 

while others, dwarfed, crooked and distorted, showed 
that under the congenial shade of some mighty pig- 
weed they had striven in vain for life, for the drop and 
the ray. There had the parent vine withered and dried 
away, leaving this unsavory and blighted fruit. Here 
and there were bestowed great mangoes, on whom had 
been lavished the care of the chief cook. They had 
been endowed with the costliest spices, and filled with 
the richest culinary treasures. They had been care- 
fully guarded and wrapped from all harm, and like 
whales among small fish, lay in the immense extent of 
vinegar; and a few golden and crimson tomatoes 
shone out among their humble neighbors. I seized an 
enormous pudding-stick and stirred the pickle-pot, and 
from it arose so sweet an odor that I was fain to empty 
the contents. There was a thick sediment, wherein 
were imbedded shrunken radish-pods, shrivelled peppers, 
half dissolved cloves, and softened mustard-seeds, now 
forgotten and neglected, but who had given the essence 
of life to flavor those above them, which, without it, 
would have been tasteless and useless. Here the 
dream ended, but I had quite a moral from it all to 
myself. 

Monday morn. I am going to the c Corners ' soon 
with father, and then will make garden the rest of the 
day with Dick. Such a wreath of fragrant blossoms 
as I have been twining would do you good to see. It 
is sunny and still, and a presence of glory rests on the 
old hill-side, and sweet thoughts are awakened as I 



228 LETTERS. 

gaze around. Write to me soon, Mary. Tell me all 
that is in thine heart to say, and tell me, too, what 
classes thee has. Excuse this hurried sheet, as I am 
going to carry it to the office now, and believe me 
thine own Mary. 



LE TTER VI. 

Chatham, New Year's Evening. 
Dearest A., — 

Dead and gone ! dead and gone ! never more canst 
thou come back to us, poor old year ! What brave 
promises were thine, what weak fulfillments ! There 
were violets that the night frosts withered ; there were 
orchard blooms where never came fruit ; there were 
rosy morning clouds that grew into tempests, and dews 
that congealed into hail ; there were fancies that 
shrunk into nothingness before cold realities ; there 
were hopes and plans and endeavors without fruition ; 
there were loves that ended in hatred, and good inten- 
tions that froze into hardness of heart. Shall we 
lament thee, then, dead deceiver, hollow professor ? 
Let us rejoice that thou art gone. But were no good 
movings in thy heart toward us ? Did thou really 
bring us no positive blessings ? Sunshine made every 
day a glory ; winds swept away the deforming tempests 
from the sky ; some desires were gratified ; some good 
will was transformed into action ; and if we remember 



LETTERS. 229 

that during the whole time that thou wert with us, God 
did not once forget us, we have much to be grateful 
for. Let us, then, stand on thy grave with holy 
thoughts, and, forgiving all thy short-comings, like a 
true friend, bury in oblivion that thou hadst not, and 
cherish that thou hadst. 

This morning I rose as the east began to brighten, 
and well defended from the cold, stepped softly out of 
doors. Slowly the earth was turning towards the sun, 
and those rays which for more than three hundred 
days had been streaming silently down on her view- 
less pathway, enlightening no human vision, com- 
menced to invest the dark winter woods with radiance. 
On what other world had those ever-shining beams 
fallen ? Was there suffering there ? Did any weep 
or pray ? These things we know not, but we know 
that there was surely a God there, wherever that world 

might be. 

Whatever of evil may grow spontaneously in my 
heart, there was none there this morning. Perhaps 
the frost destroyed it for the time, as it is said to 
destroy malignant diseases of the body. This morning 
I freely forgave all injuries, repented of all sin, loved 
all the world, desired to do good, and felt so ardent a 
love for God, so vehement a desire to do something to 
advance His glory here, to make His goodness appear, 
that Moses was scarcely more transfigured on the 
Mount than I. But as Moses fell into great transgres- 
sion immediately after this event, so have I, even 



230 LETTERS. 

before the sun set, fallen into sin. Oh ! how full was 
my soul of happiness as I traversed the snowy way up 
the hills. At last I came to a bleak spot, where the 
brown and furrowed face of dear mother Earth was 
visible, and my heart warmed towards her, old but 
unworn pilgrim of countless eternities ! I could have 
kissed her beloved forehead in my all-embracing mood. 
There in the roaring wind, that swept out of the woods 
laden with the new year greetings of the lofty oaks 
and pines to the departing stars, I bared my head, and 
standing before God, offered a prayer to Him for my- 
self, for that parent Earth, and for all she nourished. 
My supplication had no voice, yet Faith knew well that 
it sounded louder in the ear of the Eternal than the 
rushing of that mountain-wind. How world-wide were 
my sympathies ! God, who did put in my heart so full 
a prayer, Thou hast not forgotten it ! There I prayed 
also for thee, truest of friends ! there I acknowledged 
my unworthiness of thy love. 

When I came down from the hill, I felt as if I had 
stood on the Pisgah, beholding the promised land, and 
was now about to pass over and take possession. My 
faith and hope have been inexpressibly strengthened 
since then. I have found self-control easier, denials of 
no account, and disappointment not worth reckoning. 
I wonder if such scenes often occur to those who ar- 
dently seek for truth. Even if I never experience 
such exalted sentiments again, I shall still feel that I 
have not lived without sufficient happiness. 



LETTERS. 231 



LETTER VII. 



Dear A., — 

Another dawn, dear Miss , and then you will look 

with me upon our mountains and forests. Another 
eve, and you will listen with me to the evening song of 
our robin, and feel the cool night winds murmuring 
back the shining hair from your forehead, which I have 
so loved to arrange. The pine on the hill-top shall 
speak to its fellow on the plain, and thou shalt hear the 
strangely sweet voice, and know what it saith. Thou 
shalt hear the mournful echoes that ring through the 
woods in the dim twilight, and look on the shadowy 
mists creeping up from the low meadows. 

These are some of my pleasures in the country. I 
cannot offer thee splendid sights within doors, but 
without there is that which I am sure will be to thee, as 
it has been to me, very beautiful. I only hope thou 
wilt not be so wearied with thy manifold duties before 
leaving the city, that thou wilt not be in a mood to 
relish those pleasant scenes. Excuse these words 
written in extreme haste. 'Twere better thus than 
forgotten. Many thanks for the lines of remembrance 
from thee yesterday. 



232 LETTERS. 



LETTER VIII. 

• • • • • • • 

Dear A., — 

I earnestly desire to live to please God, and to enter 
into his rest as soon as he is willing to call me home ; 
though I do so long, so to speak, for that glorious coun- 
try, where tears shall be wiped from all eyes, where 
my spirit, fettered here in its best attempts, falling 
short of the aim in its highest flights, can complete 
every endeavor, perfect every design. Yet I constantly 
think, shall I not be able there in some way to serve 
those I have left behind me ? Must this desire, surely 
a right one, because commanded of God and practised 
by Christ, be prevented from accomplishment in another 
world ? We can often, almost always, serve those we 
love ; must it be that in heaven, divested of our hin- 
drances of flesh and its attendant infirmities, we can 
no longer cheer and benefit our friends ? All is dark- 
ness, and yet some hope, and in this hope I abide. 

As it is generally thought that, in view of the near 
approach of death, our hearts are purged of their 
common sins, and we are made more fit to enter into 
the communion of the saints, so I have seized upon 
such occasions, when they have, as you know, been 
presented to me, as most auspicious opportunities to 
offer up my friends' names as candidates for Heaven's 
peculiar favors, and as they were sincerely proffered, 
so I hope they were accepted. Am I to believe that 



LETTERS. 233 

God has ever heard and granted my prayers ? And if 
so, what were denied and what received ? Where I 
have prayed through years and years for the salvation 
of an immortal soul, am I to hope it has been of effi- 
cacy, or no? If so, I have nothing else to desire. 
For myself, I desire no earthly gratification, no pleasure, 
no exemption from pain. I never pray for these. 
There are but four things I need to make me happy, 
and three of them are unnecessary, — a competence, 
friendship, love, and faith in God. Wealth may depart 
like the dew of the morning, friendship may be poi- 
soned, love may die ; but oh ! my soul, hold fast thy 
faith in God, and thou shalt yet be supremely blessed ! 



LETTER IX. 

My dear A., — 

Do you not remember that Karnes places among his 
sources of happiness, cessation from bodily pain ? 
Until to-day that remark was a dead letter to me. I 
am so perfectly happy in freedom from the toothache, 
that I appreciate his remark truly. You asked me to 
tell you what were my emotions on reading Tennyson's 
Poems. I cannot. I have read many of them, and 
felt l lifted out of myself.' They are too exquisitely 
fashioned to admit of criticism ; like the great butter- 
flies, pale, green and violet, and snow-white, that I 
caught years ago, and in the catching, destroyed. So 



234 LETTERS. 

fragile were they, so fairly tinted, that I must e'en be 
content to look up and wonder at their perfection, nor 
put fingers on their wings. 

The night before last, as I sat all night by the parlor 
fire, or lay on the floor in ecstasy of pain, will you 
believe it, those beautiful poems staid alway in my 
mind ? I thought they meant to comfort me, and I wel- 
comed them. How that one stanza thrilled me, — 

* All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call ; 
'T was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all ; 
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, 
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.' 

I intend to copy out divers and sundries of these 
poems, so that I may have them when I go home. 
4 Mariana in the South ' seems to me to furnish one of 
the most vivid pictures of the effect of a long continued 
drought that I ever saw. One almost feels with her 
how from 4 heat to heat the day increased,' and sees 
the ; one black shadow on the wall ' warp slowly round 
from west to east. 

I am so well to-day that I promise myself the pleas- 
ure of coming to see you by-and-by. I hope you are 
having a pleasant morning of housekeeping. 



LETTERS. 235 



LETTER X. 



My dear A., — 

I have been enraged at a criticism on Mrs. Hemans 
in one of the magazines. I prize the clear 4 ring ' of 
Mrs. H.'s versification more than all the love, duty, 
progress, and moral suasion of all the new school of 
poets. Verily, now-a-days, ' the poor ' we have with 
us always. When I open a volume of poems, I prefer 
to find a digression from the ordinary talk of this tow- 
cloth and checked-apron-wearing world, to reading 
wearily through rhythmical sermons and Dorcas Society 
addresses in verse. Do good with all your might, fer- 
vently, effectually, thoroughly, but do not talk about it 
all the time, — at least do not make poetry the vehicle 
in which you go about to trumpet your deeds. Alas, 
the old triumphal chariot, with its laurels, its milk-white 
steeds, and the clarion blast that heralded it, is turned 
into a Connecticut pedler's wagon, with iron candle- 
sticks, brooms, and patent medicines inside, while a 
big tin dinner-horn announces its approach. The Muses 
have become Sisters of Charity, and tramp about with 
big baskets of clothes and phials. Mars is in jail 
for fighting a duel, and Bacchus has had the deli- 
rium tremens. Nimble-footed Mercury goes around 
with subscription papers. Venus has been sent to ' the 
bettering house.' The Graces have put on high- 
necked dresses, and write for the magazines. Juno 



236 LETTERS. 

manages an Orphan Asylum, and Jupiter has gone to 
Congress to legislate for reform, progress, and woman's 
rights. Alas, for the good old times ! 

l^ou expect me to say something about the Pulpit 
Portraits in Holden. I have only read the last two 
numbers, but was much pleased with the vigor, fresh- 
ness, and animation of the sketches. There are some 
6 countrified ' expressions that are in admirable contrast 
to the smooth, polished, and senseless diction of most 
magazine papers of that class. I shall get the rest and 
read them. You see I put in no detracting l but.' The 
truth is, I have not had time to find fault with them ; 
so I cannot judge whether there be any faults or no. 

With my myriad duties, I still find time to write a 
little. I have undertaken a task which you may think 
will poorly repay me. It is the life of my father. 
You know it is not an eventful one, but I think any 

one like might make something interesting 

or instructive out of it. I mean to fill out this sheet 
with a poem. I composed it lately, while engaged in 
distracting employments. It is entitled ' A Prayer for 
Remembrance.' From 

Mary. 



LETTERS. 337 



LETTER XI. 



My dear A, — 

Tell Anna I shall answer her letter soon. Although 
it was brief, it did the heavenly office of increasing 
and strengthening the love of two absent friends. Is 
either of the Cadys there ? If so, tell them I have 
not forgotten one flower of the beautiful bouquet that, 
through its sweet breath and tasteful arrangement, 
kept me in mind of them all the way home. Not a 
sparrow's worth of kindness which I ever received 
there has fallen to the ground ; it even now warms 
my heart to think of it. Of all books, what do you 
suppose L have just been reading ? For the first time 
completely, Allan Ramsay's ' Gentle Shepherd,' the 
pearl of comedies. When summer comes I shall 
more fully appreciate it, as all those pastorals seem 
rather imaginative when the 'burnies wimplin o'er 
the stanes ' are silent and fast-bound — when the 
4 heathery knowes ' are clean buried out of sight, and 
Roger tuning his flute on upland braes, among his 
sheep, to Jenny washing 4 does ' in the pool Halbres 
How, are hardly supposable cases. What a pity 
there are not more Sir William Worthys ! What a 
pity that so many of us are able to say with Ram- 
say, that we 

* Laugh when we 're sad, speak when we 've nought to say, 
And for the fashion, when we 're blithe, seem wae.' 



238 LETTERS. 

When spring comes, I shall carry The Gentle Shep- 
herd, Walton's Complete Angler, and Cotton's condem- 
nation of it, into the country, and trust nothing will 
4 cross my pastoral mood.' Speaking of pastorals re- 
minds me of a passage in one of Praed's poems that I 
was reading last night, that amazed me, where Vidal 
turns sentimental and goes into the country — ' He 
lay beside a rivulet and looked beside himself.' Is n't 
it good ? Also — ' Three days he supped upon dry 
fruit, and lay upon wet grass.' At last, finding 
' There's nothing like a rattling ride for curing melan- 
choly,' he sat out one day in pursuit of adventures, 
' with a long, dull journey all before, and a short, 
gay squire behind him.' But this is not the place to 
commence quoting from Praed, for one will never be 
done. I have been reading Headley's Washington and 
his Generals, and am greatly disappointed in it. It is 
too hastily written, too partisan in its character to be 
trusted, too full of repetition, too warlike in its spirit, 
and too desultory and unconnected. With two noble 
exceptions, Greene's retreat through the Carolinas, and 
Paul Jones's fight with the Serapis, they are worthy 
the author, and too good for the book. You or I or 
John Smith could have made as good a collection of 
sketches. The portraits, too, I do not hesitate to pro- 
nounce worthless, as the great similarity between them 
and their total want of character show. The last sur- 
viving character in that terrible combat with the Sera- 
pis, is my relative, Francis Chase, of , Maine, 



LETTERS. 239 

one of the hundred men of that name who served as 
privates in the continental army, scarce one of whom 
returned to their homes. I have no desire to read 
Napoleon and his Marshals. Battle scenes are not to 
my taste, and the reason why I like this description of 
the sea-fight, is because the dreadful particulars of the 
scene are merged in its accompaniments. The beau- 
tiful moon-light, the still ocean, the smoke, the 
thunder, the reeling ships, the booming guns, the 
final upspringing and down plunging of the dying 
ship. How the blood flowed, how the poor maimed 
wretches groaned, how the spectators shrieked and 
wrung their hands, is not told. 

In reading the last number of ' Dombey and Son,' 
I have come to the conclusion that ' The Battle of 
Life ' was merely a preface to this great work. The 
two first pages of that story would be quite as appli- 
cable to this. I think that it was made humble and 
unpretending, purposely to prepare the way for this. 
The title belongs to it. Is it not ' the Battle of Life ' 
emphatically ? That secret contains all the interest of 
the tale. It is not the circumstances, but the inward 
strife and struggle of the actors that enchain us. Mrs. 
Dombey is introduced as just passing away from the 
great battle. What her life was we are at liberty to 
guess. People are selected from all the walks of life, 
in all possible variety of circumstances, at all ages. 
There are foes within and without — ambushes, treach- 
ery, the might that maketh right, the retreat, the flight, 



240 LETTERS. 

the pursuit. There are death cries and struggles, and 
hopeless charges and forlorn hopes ; and there, too, 
are innocence secure amid a thousand perils, sim- 
plicity, faith, and love more mighty than gold or chains, 
and true worth will assuredly be at last victor. 

I inclose this little poem, which I beg you will seal 
after reading, and send. I know there is not a word of 
truth in it, and were I ' not permanently withdrawn 
into solid darkness,' I should not dare. You will say 
I have wonderfully depreciated, and it is true. With 
a heart full of love, Mary. 

More flowers, more beauty in my path, 

More light along my way ; 
A deeper hue the sunshine hath, 

A richer glow the day ; 
And every breeze that sweepeth by, 

Speaks with a gayer tone, 
And beareth with it perfumes rare, 

Which these sweet flowers have strewn. 

Ay, bring them forth into the sun ; 

They were not born to be 
Hidden away from mortal eyes, 

That joy such flowers to see. 
Bring crystal water-drops to fling, 

Like pearls upon each leaf ; 
So let them rest in yonder vase, 

A green and golden sheaf. 

Father ! who gavest these gems to shine, 

These buds in bliss to grow, 
What must adorn Thy courts above, 

If such are found below ? 



LETTERS. 241 

They say that there e'en rainbow hues 

Are pale and dim to see ; 
Then what, oh Father ! dyes Thy flowers ? 

What must their radiance be ? 



LETTER XII. 

Chatham, 1846. 

Dear A., — 

Do not suppose from the small size of my sheet that 
I have not much to say to you, only so little time just 
now. As the merchants say appeasingly, I ; shall have 
more soon.' How good was your letter to me ! I was 
getting restless, that I did not hear from you ; and when 
the last hours of daylight were dying out of the sky, 
I used to go away by myself, and, like Cowper's cat, 
1 sit and think,' for it was at such times that your ring 
came oftenest at the door, and then I most missed your 
company. 

Ah ! you found time and strength amid all your illness 
to write to me, and send me so delightful a package. 
I sat up late last night to read the ' Cricket on the 
Hearth,' and the next day read it to E., who was as 
charmed with it as I. What an original story it is ! 
Tilly Slowboy and that young Perry bringle, Dot and 
the Carrier, the Kettle and the Cricket, all seemed to 
vie with each other in content and household happiness. 
All through the pages I trembled for the ' baby's ' life. 
16 



242 LETTERS. 

Tilly was so careless, I constantly echoed Dot's cau- 
tion, 4 Whatever else you do, do not let him fall under 
the grate.' Do you believe that Tackleton really 
changed and became the loveable being that Bertha 
supposed him ? And did he make their old home 
happy ? I wish I knew. 

You ask me the sequel of the stoiy of the New 
Jersey guest. There is none. People are always 
coming and going here. You know we keep open 
house. Have I told you of the bountiful feast of which 
I have been partaking ? Miss Strickland's Queens of 
England, followed by three volumes of old English 
metrical romances, rendered in modern prose, and 
a great book of Froissart, which was bought for me 
at a book auction, where I saw it advertised. You 
should read some of these romances before you read 
Tennyson's Morte D' Arthur, The Lady of Shalott, Sir 
Galahad, and Sir Launcelot, for the foundation of them 
all are here ; especially the sweet, plaintive story of 
The Lady, which differs somewhat from the original. 



LETTER XIII. 

My dear A., — 

I think my former indulgence in writing so much was 
a great disadvantage to me. I poured forth my vivid 
imaginings and sudden emotions without having duly 



LETTERS. 243 

considered their import, and sifted the wheat from the 
chaff. I thought much but hastily, and waited not to 
digest the impressions that swept over my mind like 
the changing winds. Now I keep my best thoughts to 
myself; I do not yet trust them away from me in their 
infancy. Perhaps they may wither and die in their 
prison ; I can afford to lose a few for the sake of the 
others. I do not know that I shall ever attempt to write 
well again, but I feel that if the physical machinery 
were properly adjusted, the hand that strikes the 
wires would be steadier than of yore, and stronger by 
rest. 

I am not like Fouque's « Old Man of the Mountain,' 
afraid of the ' inward singing,' that is my best singing : 
and if it please me, let the world listen to the other 
singers who need ears ; if it please the angels, what if 
men do not hear it? There is always strength in 
Silence. 

You will be glad to know that I am yet very much 
occupied with FT. W. Beecher's Sermon. I do not desire 
to hear much preaching ; I confuse the topics and lose 
them. I was just in a state to profit by his strong and 
earnest appeal. I do not think I am, or ever have been 
a backslider, for I have never attained sufficient pro- 
gress in the Christian way to lose much ground, and I 
have always cherished with great care the gleanings of 
light which I have found. To me the sermon was 
more a warning than a reproach, a series of land- 
marks, to point out my Future, rather than a denuncia- 



244 LETTERS. 

tion of my Past. I felt as Magda expressed herself, 
after hearing a fervent exhortation from Hieronymus, 
' Now thou hast given me a right good shaking.' I 
need something strong and urgent ; I cannot be bet- 
tered by merely elegant diction and faultless commen- 
tary ; there must be something akin to innate enthusi- 
asm, — that you know. 



LETTER XIV. 

My dear A., — 

Annie has doubtless told you that I wrote her of much 

sickness in our family. Since then B. has quite 

recovered, after two months' confinement. Little Eddy 
is just beginning to leave his room, after three weeks' ill- 
ness with a slow fever. C came home from Alba- 
ny ill with an eruptive fever. Last of all a young man, 
who keeps a neighboring district school this winter, 
came to us nearly three weeks ago, sick with a pleurisy. 
His friends are all in Greene county, we are his only 
acquaintances here, what could we do ? Father had 
him laid on his own bed, where he has been ever since. 
He is very ill. Inflammation of the lungs has set in, 
and I see no prospect of his recovery very soon. But 
with all these doleful scenes we have some rather amus- 
ing ones ; I could not but laugh when the poor fellow 
came home. The doctor happened in at the same 
instant, and seeing his state, bled him at once. No 



LETTERS. 245 

one was by but myself. I held a dish, like the fish in 
Cock Robin, to catch his blood. Father came in and 
spoke to the doctor, and while I was watching the 
crimson stream, the sick man fainted. I called out to 
the doctor, who seized and stretched him on the floor — 
over went the chair, out flew the cushion. I ran away 
with the bowl, and Willy Clark coming in with some 
water at this juncture, calmly threw it into Ingraham's 
face. Then the doctor shouted for bandage. Father 
cried out ' camphor,' and you would have thought the 
French and Indians had come. At last he revived, 
and they carried him to bed. I hope you will excuse 
my dwelling so long on these matters, as they are all 
we have to engross our attention at present. We have 
nothing but our infirmities to boast of. To complete 
the catalogue, — our family numbers thirty, — we have 
been forced to send away two servants for theft, — and 
the third is laid up with a felon. I thought of you the 
other day, when I held four little boys to have six teeth 
extracted from them. I fancied your horrified look 
could you have walked in at the time. I think you 
will put this part of my letter on a par with the story 
of the Caliph Vathek for accumulation of horrors. 
You don't know how nicely we manage, though, to 
keep our domestic machinery all straight amid these 
counter influences, lay out work for a plain sewer and 
tailoress, and attend to the sick night and day, besides 
having a little chance to go to meeting now and then. 
No one has thought of complaining, for we have so 



246 LETTERS. 

much to be thankful for. All pretty well ourselves, 
and kind friends coming to. see us, and the school so 
happy and healthy and improving. Oh, dear friend ! I 
thank God truly for having given us such large hearts 
that these things seem no burden, the performance of 
these offices, no merit. 



LETTER XV. 
Dear A., — 

Laying reverent hands on one of your precious vol- 
umes of Longfellow, I just now took a peep within its 
leaves. What was my delight to find there the beauti- 
ful hymn sung at the consecration of Pulaski's Banner, 
which was published anonymously many years ago. 
It is one of my heart favorites, and never until now 
did I know who wrote it. Such a picture as that hymn 
always calls up in my mind ! The dim church, the 
tapers, the white-robed sisterhood, the gorgeous fold of 
the ' blood-red banner,' the holy music thrilling all, and 
the brave young soldier, ' a chevalier sans peur et sans 
reprocheS I cannot believe but that these were the 
very words there uttered ; that the stern heart of battle 
melted within him as he listened to those Christian 
strains ; that the glory of * the rush of steeds and men ' 
paled in his soul ; that he longed to fling aside his sword, 
and kneel with those pure and blessed spirits. 

And then, when the last plaintive lines of that hymn 



LETTERS. 247 

rose on the air, were they not unto him as a prophecy 
and a vision ? Came not before him in sad light ' the 
soldier's bier ? ' He knew that his lot was drawn. He 
had no word of reply — no promise of faithful battle 
aneath the folds of that banner — pressed upon his heart 
the awe of death — came to his eye a dimness, — 

* And the warrior took that banner proud, 
It was his martial cloak and shroud ! ' 



LETTER XVI. 

My dear A., — ...... 

I was never so fleshy or so ruddy before. But they 
do starve me, nevertheless. Amid all the festivities of 
the season, I emulate the unfortunate apprentice who 
had dumplings and potatoes for breakfast, dinner, and 
supper. Brown, or rather black bread, and milk, (for 
I have got as far as the last luxury,) is my sole food. 
Only think of that, ye revellers, « who dwell at home 
in ease.' Through all the dinners of home-fattened 
turkeys, chanticleers, and 4 ancient dame mince pie,' I 
sit like an unbidden guest for whom no plate is pre- 
pared. Even when New Year's Night was celebrated 
by an oyster supper, an unusual thing in this distant 
region, I sat with my slice of coarse bread, and my 
cup of milk, looking as placid as a June morning. Do 



248 



LETTERS. 



not you believe, if I were cast like Robinson Crusoe on 
a desert island, that I should content myself like Gold- 
smith's hermit ? 

' No flocks that range the valley free 

To slaughter I condemn ; 
Taught by that Power that pities me, 

I learn to pity them. 
But from the mountain's grassy side 

A guiltless feast I bring, 
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 

And water from the spring.' 

In spite of philosophy, it is rather trying to the in- 
valid, thrown out of all companionship and society, to 
feel that she is no longer needed in the great world 
that rolls on, ever on, with so giddy a motion, that 
the flash has died out from her eye, and the quick 
repartee from her lip, that the gift of song that 
flung a purple robe about her has departed, it may 
be, forever. Gone, too, is the smile and caress, and 
the loving word, and the gathering of welcoming faces 
that were wont to greet her coming footstep. And yet 
I thank the Father who hath not forgotten me, that it 
hath been so ; for oh ! how many a lesson of resigna- 
tion and humility have been tendered to my unwilling 
heart, and hardly have they been learned ; but the hope 
and the wish of all this that I used to love so well are 
gone now, and I think will never return. I have no 
desire ever to leave the retirement of these hills again. 
It has often been amiss with me elsewhere, and now 
let me live here, and here die. 



LETTERS. 249 

I can hardly hope to be remembered by my friends 
in Brooklyn much longer. I am sure the Academy is 
now, indeed, rich in teachers. It is well that I had no 
mantle to bequeath to my successor, for Miss Lynch 
needed none ; but if in the sudden wrenching asunder 
of the ties that bound me to my girls, any of those 
silver threads which I so prized were left, I pray that 
for the pity of her who from all the world's pleasures 
is dead and gone, that Miss Lynch will take them ten- 
derly and broider them into the innermost fold of her 
mantle, and wrap them lovingly around her heart. 
Oh ! my girls, my jewels, my precious flowers ! So 
long had I toiled with a willing heart to lead them to 
the light ; and then just as the dawn fell upon them, 
just as the darkness grew broken and striated with the 
golden red, and I knew by the fresh young flowers 
that sprang up and shook their leaves, glancing, flut- 
tering in the early light, by the dim spangles that 
began to show, by the unbidden carollings and song- 
echoes, and such trembling vibrations of melody burst 
on my ear from many a silent, shady nook, — knew by 
all these, and by the softer voice and brighter eye and 
the tenderer speech, that the morning had come, — 
I was stricken down — down — and at last went feebly 
away forever, without even a parting kiss. But I 
rarely think of this now, and it is all a dimly remem- 
bered dream. 

I sometimes sound names over to myself that I can- 
not get familiar, that were once well known to me. 



250 LETTERS. 

I frequently think of Helen and Mary and Elizabeth 
and Caroline, and cannot tell till I get a list what their 
other names are ; it is only by the soul and its emana- 
tions that I remember them. I know that it was one 
with a red lip and a soft shower of curls, that a certain 
tale was composed by a fair girl that had blue eyes and 
a gentle voice, and so on. Do I weary you, my beloved 
friend ? Think then how long it is since I laid my 
head on your hands and spoke to you, and you will 
forgive. 

And now I do not know what to say in apology for 
this homely country package I send you. I could have 
sent to the city for some kind of superfinery, but 
wished you should have something from home that 
would make you think of an old-fashioned country 
family. 

That you may be very happy is the wish of 

Mary. 



LETTER XVII. 



Come, come away, 

And I will show thee treasures rare, 
Mossy nooks where the sunbeams lay, 
Shady dells where the breezes play, 
Bursting buds on each tiny spray, 

Beauty everywhere. 



Albany 



LETTERS. 251 

Come, come with me ; 

The hills in light are lying ; 
Away in the woods is the roving bee ; 
The laughing brooks are dancing free j 
The robin sings on * the old oak tree,* 

And the echoes all replying. 

Come, sister, come ; 

We will sit on the green hill-side, 
Or through the meadows and pastures roam, 
Or watch in the streamlet the eddying foam, 
Or gather bright pebbles to bear them home, 

With many a flower beside. 

Come, dearest, tell me not 

Such dreams as these are vain; 
In life there is many a sunny spot, 
And though we are bound to a changeful lot, 
We '11 drop no tear its page to blot, 

Or wither its rose-leaf chain. 

Come, and when day is o'er, 

Thou 'It sing sweet songs for me ; 
And my mother will smile as in days of yore, 
And my sire forget that his locks are hoar j 
Each day shall be blest as the one before, 

And more abundantly. 

Dear Emma, — 

I have been dreaming. The vision was so sweet to 
me, that I would I had not wakened. You may not 
be here when my vacation comes. Or if you go away 
from us not before then, you may be so engaged with 
your necessary preparations as to be unable to leave. 



252 LETTERS. 

I will not think of your going. And if you did, you 
might be disappointed in the pleasure you anticipated. 
You would find a farmer's home, no luxuries, no em- 
bellishments, save those of Nature. A large rambling 
house, a great part of which is used for c nothing at all 
in particular,' having been built and occupied for a 
school. Little does it seem, as I walk across those de- 
serted rooms, (some of which I have not entered for 
years) and hear naught but the sound of my own foot- 
steps, that they have once contained so many restless 
spirits. We never could make up our minds to leave 
the place for any other, though we sometimes talk of 
it. You would stand upon the old ' stoop,' and look 
out upon one of the most magnificent scenes that ever 
you beheld, — hills, woods, valleys, villages, the river, 
the mountains, with their grand outlines. I suppose 
the spots that are classic grounds to me would be but 
common earth to you. The l brook,' a common 
stream, smaller perhaps than most ; the ' hills,' barren 
ridges ; ' the Dug- Way,' a huge basin crowned by 
woods holding a few hills and hollows ; the ' forest 
paths,' mere cattle paths, &c. I have not the slightest 
doubt that you would wonder in the corner of your 
heart, how I could love them so. Our hill-streams are 
too narrow and swift to allow us l to play the parts of 
Indian maidens.' We have no lakes, etc. to lionize. 
But, dear Emma, the grass is as green, the violets as 
sweet, the air as clear, and hearts as warm as in more 
favored lands. I have been dreaming that you should 



LETTERS. 253 

accompany me on my visit to the dear old people, the 
most familiar acquaintances I have in the hills ; that 
we would fill my accustomed basket, and enter one 
little dwelling after another, with kind words and a little 
gift for each. I want to show you my friends — 
seven dear old people, every one over seventy, who 
look upon me as a daughter. And then you should 
have a ' cart ride ' to Uncle Nathaniel's, uncle to all 
Chatham, and see their charming residence. And you 
should go to some of those villages whose white walls 
we see glistening. 

Do not laugh at me, dear Emma ; I have always 
been so happy there, I fancy every one else must be 
so. Will you write me a line now and then, and tell 
me of yourself, your home, and your friends ? 



LETTER XVIII. 

Dear Emma, — 

Tell me how is it that we have learned to love one 
another? Till I lost you I knew not what you were. 
To know that you and Mary love the uncultured 
daughter of the hills ; and speak kindly to her inner 
heart, and cheer her fitful spirit, changeful as the night- 
wind in the locusts ; and tell such sweet stories of fairy 
life to be tasted among your pleasant homes ; and hold 



254 LETTERS. 

your hands forward to help her on her way, beckoning 
her to the bright future, the far future, — this is what I 
never dreamed of. I have some peculiar trials and 
griefs, and when these press upon me, then your blessed 
looks come up to me, and I rest on your love as some- 
thing the world will not take away. Your little notes 
to me in Albany are doubly precious now. Dear 
Emma, your touching mention of those old saintly 
people is very gratifying to me. I have seen them 
many times since my return, and on each furrowed 
face and each hoary head were time-marks made since 
I last saw them. 

Shall I tell you of the white cottages, uncle Daniel, 
and aunt Ellen ? My parents and brother B. and wife 
visited them a short time since, and took me as waiting 
maid. You should have been with me in that low- 
roofed dwelling, in the cool porch whereat I kneaded 
the luscious cream-biscuit, and cooked the savory 
plums, and boiled the motherly old tea-kettle. You 
should have helped me out with the massive oaken 
table, and spread with me the snowy cloth, woven, 
washed, and ironed by the hands of that ancient dame. 
You should have accompanied me to the well-known 
pantry, where long rows of choice cheeses and cool 
butter-pots were ranged, the product of the same good 
soul's industry, all unaided, for though so very aged, 
they live alone. I am going over in a few days to 
clear-starch her caps, — will you go too ? 

The time-worn inmates of the Pine Cottage ! Yes- 



LETTERS. 255 

terday morn, while the grass was clinging to the earth 
with dew, I sought the hill and wood for the Aster and 
Golden Rod. I had achieved a mighty bouquet, and 
was preparing to ascend the steep, when Rover put 
himself on the defensive and uttered a loud bark. I 
looked on to the green meadow-side, and there was 
Aunt Isabel toiling; along through the field with a weight 
of dried herbs on her shoulder, going to the village 
store for some little comfort for the good old husband, 
who is very feeble. There was an honest independence 
in the old lady's manner, and she stepped away slowly 
with her burden evidently contented. I think another 
sere leaf will scarcely find the husband with her. 
Eliza visited Aunt Martha yesterday. She is cheerful 
and clear-eyed as of aforetime ; age seems to have 
left no more marks upon her than I remember of 
twenty years since. Aunt Molly's peach tree is « fall- 
ing into the sere and yellow leaf,' while the good 
woman is forgetting her golden fruit in visiting her 
friends in Otsego. She smiles pleasantly and speaks 
graciously yet. Uncle Philip and Aunt Lydia ! The 
sand in their glass is nearly spent. Yet he came here 
two days since on foot, leaning on his tall staff, with a 
bright, sweet smile on his withered face, that made him 
wear almost a holy look, so old, so good. What a 
harvest waits Death ! 



256 LETTERS. 



LETTER XIX. 

Sabbath Morn. 
My Emma, — 

If all other days in the week be stormy, let the 
Sabbath be sunny and still — it is so now. Most of 
our family have gone to meeting, but I am in mother's 
room while she sleeps, conscious only of the glorious 
day without, because of the light glow upon the closed 
curtains. I am rejoiced to hear by your letters that 
Edward's labors have been so blessed ; it must be a 
great joy to you, this fulfilment of the words, ' The 
prayer of the righteous availeth much.' I think it is 
just a fortnight since that one of my aged friends, 
whom you visited with me in the little brown cottage, 
died. I remember when he was one of the stoutest 
men in the country round ; now he was so bowed, and 
pale, and trembling, it would seem that nothing but the 
shadow remained. 

Do not you remember Uncle Philip, another aged 
man ? He is very ill, perhaps not to recover. Oh, 
Emma ! there never was a time when so many of our 
little community were taken away. My heart echoes 
your words, 4 Nothing enduring, nothing permanent ! ' 

You ask where I am going this spring ? I answer, 

nowhere while my mother is so ill Have the 

birds come ? Do other l woods, the birds' warble know ?' 
One or two glancing singers have flown around our 



LETTERS. 257 

trees and home, and poured out rich gushes of music. 
There was a robin, too, in the quince trees, and a 
Phebe bird in the locust. ' Spring, the Awakener ' is 
more welcome than ever, for she brings so early her 
music and her flower-buds. It does not seem possible 
that snows and tempests so lately desolated the land 

and sea ! Dear E , has not your heart ached for the 

poor shipwrecked sufferers along our coast ? I scarcely 
know for whom to feel the most, those who went down 
in sight of human aid, or those who saw their fellows 
perish and expected to share their fate, and were saved 
to live in mourning for lost friends. I often think of 
sailors' hardships ; my mother's people, many of them, 
snatch a precarious subsistence from the briny deep. 
It seems strange to me, that while our rich country has 
so much room to spare, any should choose the hard 
life of a sailor. Pray, pardon the incongruities of my 
sheet ; it is full of them, I doubt not, for I have written 
at little intervals, and in haste. 



LETTER XX. 

Chatham, 1844. 

Dear Emma, — 

Hark ! 't was the night-wind ; all arouna is still, 
Comes up no murmur from the shrunken rill; 
Hark ! 't was the shiver of the poplar bough, 
There is no pattering of the rain-drops now. 
17 



258 LETTERS. 

Sealed are the fountains of the heaven's deep, 
And the storm-angels all are hushed in sleep. 
Oh ! for a shower ! one sweet, refreshing shower ! 
Such as were sent in April's joyous hour. 

The spirit of the drought is a beautiful, but a fearful 
spirit. He walketh abroad at the noonday and at the 
midnight ; he goeth up with the sun in the morning, 
and the clouds flee away ; at noon he withdraweth the 
veil from the sun's face, and the grass withers ; the 
cattle look wistfully at the dry water-courses, and the 
drooping leaves lie upon each other. At eventide he 
sitteth on the mountain-top, and a pillar of red mist 
riseth up, through which the evening star faintly twin- 
kles ; at night he folds his wing that the dew may 
come down to nestle in the flower nooks, but no clouds. 
For one month has the drought-spirit reigned ; not a 
drop of rain ; but the brazen sky above, and the scorch- 
ing ground below. The streams have persisted in 
their goings in, and the moist rain with the parched 
earth holds no companionship. We may say, in the 
simple words of the Scottish shepherd, ' It is but a small 
thing to Thee, oh ! Lord, but to us a life's worth ! ' 
The wind freshens, would it might bring us rain ! 
How do these seasons bring closer to our minds our 
dependence upon Him who dispenses all our bounties ! 
Blessings on the little brook in our field, where the 
neighbors resort for water ! It seems exhaustless, yet 
there is usually but very little there. 



LETTERS. 259 



LETTER XXI. 

Lovely Emma, — 

I have not visited Albany since I left school, but 
have long intended it. How shall I bear to walk 
through the halls where I once was so at home — a 
stranger ? There is no spot there so hallowed to me 
as that little desk in the drawing-room. I see the old 
bridge now, the rushing water, the dark rocks, and 
your permitted spaniel ! Do you believe, Emma, thai 
the others remember us as we do them ? If so, I must 
be hallowed in the hearts of a multitude, for a multitude 
are hallowed in my heart. 

They are gathered again ! They are gathered again ! 

Our places are filled with a shining train. 

They are gathered again ! but oh ! not all 

Who trod with us the echoing hall. 

They speak, but the voices we loved to hear 

Fall not to-day on the listener's ear; 

They sing the old hymn we used to raise 

When our words were blended in other days; 

But a stranger echo that we ne'er knew 

Seems breaking the ancient chorus through. 

'T were sorrow to stand on that oft-trod floor 

And mark no face that we loved of yore; 

And meet the watching of stranger eyes 

As they gazed on us in half surprise ; 

'T would bring up the hoarded thoughts of years, 

'T would swell the founts of our childhood's tears, 



260 LETTERS. 

To stand thus, remembering where are flown 

Those who blessed us in hours bygone. 

I should hear the song that the violets sing 

In the balmy days of the early spring, 

And the deathlike woe of our parting day 

Would once more cross my shadowed way. 

Never again must I press the hand 

Of each gentle one of our sister band, 

And hear their murmured words of love 

Steal o'er my spirit like wing of dove ; 

For some are afar in their own loved home, 

And some away on the ocean-foam — 

They are parted by mount, they are parted by stream, 

Broken for aye is their honey-dream. 

No more do we bow at that shrine of prayer, 

The Bible lies open, but we are not there. 

Think you they miss us ? Alas ! 't were strange, 

In this mournful world of ceaseless change, 

"Were we remembered, — the hours dance on, 

And they give no thought to the sisters gone. 

And now my mingled story is written, will Emma 
have patience to read it ? Will she remember that it 
was written in a loving spirit, and not mind the thou- 
sand and two imperfections, which lie not only upon its 
head but upon its whole extent ? I fancy you are 
asleep all this long while, that I have been so happy 
writing to you, and so sleep on, and Heaven's benison 
be upon you. Please write me very soon, if it be but 
little. Will you not ? 



LETTERS. 261 



LETTER XXII. 

Chatham. 

Dear Emma, — 

I snatch a few moments late in the evening to say to 
you much, — much that I can tell you only brokenly. 
And first let me thank you for your letter, which came 
to me as comes the south wind to the dreariness of 
winter. Do you remember that I received a long letter 
from you when my dear mother was so veiy ill last 
fall, and that sheet was my companion for days and 
nights ? So was it now, as I awoke from a heavy morn- 
ing sleep, after having been up all night with my 
mother, and was greeted with the sight of your loved 
hand. I could scarcely read it for the tears. I have 
once more gone down into the valley of the shadow of 
death for that dear parent's sake. Once more has dis- 
ease stricken her with a strong hand, and laid a weight 
upon our hearts. We dared not for days turn our eyes 
from her meek face, lest it should be the last look ; but 
she is now better, much better, and though we cannot 
hope for length of days for her, we are like a cluster 
of flowers from which a great stone has been raised, 
lifting up our eyes to the sky, and though still bent, 
praising God. I have found out the old oak already, 
Emma. I have found many treasures near it, — long, 
feathery sweet Cicely leaves fresh as autumn, arbutus 
fully budded, cinque-foil and strawberry leaves, no flow- 
ers. Yet I have more pleasure in these first olive- 
branches of spring, than in all the fulfillments of 
summer. ..... 



262 LETTERS. 



LETTER XXIII. 

Whatever my dear Mary Allston may think of my 
writing her again without a reply to my former letter, 
I cannot resist a desire to address her once more by 
that familiar name. Do you not see that my prophecy 
in regard to your future oblivion of me was quite true ? 
It is all right — your present pre-occupation of mind 
will have it so. But i the whirligig of time brings on 
his revenges.' Let me illustrate. One of my most punc- 
tual and delightful correspondents is a wife, the mother 
of three girls. She says she loves to steal away from 
her romping little ones, and be a girl with me, to 
forget the cares of a housewife in the utterance of 
tender and pleasant thoughts, to me, her loving friend, 
and have a little ' learned talk' about art and literature, 
a little interchange of hopes and feelings, unalloyed 
by prosaic interludes of pudding and pie associations. 
She tells charming anecdotes sometimes of her dar- 
lings, and speaks beautifully of her husband, who fre- 
quently dictates a few lines. 

You see my drift ; one of these years I shall have 
my Mary Allston again, just as affectionate a friend 
as she used to be before these times. I have resumed 
my sunrise rambles, performing what some one irre- 
vocably calls the l gown-draggling exploit of brushing 
the morning dews,' to the no small detriment of my 



LETTERS. 263 

personal attractions. Sometimes I make atrocious 
caricatures of the glorious scenery — houses with hills 
on their tops, cattle suspended among the branches of 
the trees, fences inclosing nothing, brooks running up 
hill, and horses larger than the stables. When I 
bring home a rude sketch of a tree, or rock, or farm, 
that can be recognised, I feel like a new Raphael. 

I do not know as I shall go to Brooklyn. I feel a 
great sense of insufficiency when I think of it ; I scarce 
dare undertake it. Could I go on the dull track of 
composition, as heretofore practised, it would be easy 
enough. But I do think such a teacher does compar- 
atively little. And if I teach it, my whole soul shall 
be given to it, and all that I know, or feel, or experience, 
shall be poured forth for my pupils. I will write for 
them, read for them, study for them ; I will have an 
entire new sytem in place of this unwearied round of 
composition ; for I know that more can be done than 
is done by teachers of this branch. Art weary, my 
sister ? Good night. Mary. 

Here I am scribbling away in the coolest manner, 
unmindful whether or no I am preparing a weary five 
minutes' work for you. Besides, I have read in 
Goethe 'It is impertinence to write what none will 
read.' Pardon! for Auld Lang Syne. I know you 
will be glad to hear that, in spite of the ill health of the 
family, I am blessed with great content of mind, and a 
quiet happiness. My last year's mental sufferings 



264 LETTERS. 

seem forever banished. The dear Father be praised ! 
My heart sings daily with its inward joy and peace. 
Though I have writen daily to you, my soul has been 
full of sweet, solemn thoughts of you, my dearly 
loved friend. May you be a happy wife as you de- 
serve. May you live to see shining heads cluster 
around your knee, and young voices calling you by 
the holiest name of earth. To the care of Him who 
will not forget, I commit you fervently, trusting you 
will ever bear in remembrance your loving friend, 

Mary C. 



LETTER XXIV. 

Albany. 

To the Same. 

How you hold up your hands and say, 4 Misfortunes 
never come singly.' Mine, in the shape of letters from 
you, never come at all. I have a little wee fire in my 
room, in a social humor, though all alone. And though 
in reality you are so distant, you seem nearer to me 
than any other, and therefore my sociability, like a 
brimming cup, flows over to you first. I have been 
down stairs to get rid of my restlessness, and 4 elevated 
the first murderer ' for half an hour, with Kate and 
Fan, but all in vain. I am no whit more inclined to sit 
stupidly down and read than before. I have not any 



LETTERS. 265 

thing in life to tell you, — not a word. I went to the 
Catholic Fair the other night, and such a scene — such 
a gay evening ! I think I saw originals enough for ten 

of James's novels at least. I stood at a table with , 

and as there was no one there I knew, I laughed and 
enjoyed myself without restraint. I saw there the first 
gentleman I ever thought beautiful. They look well 
enough in general, but as for beauty ! — I have been 
rhapsodizing about him and about his radiant ' eyes ' 
ever since, to the great amusement of the good folks. 
But such weather as we have ! Oh, that it was blotted 
out of the almanac ! First snow, then hail, then rain, 
then ( splosh,' — keeping poor me in the house all the 
time. The cold has for the last three days been terri- 
ble. There is said to be great suffering among the 

poor, especially the foreigners. E C visited 

a poor widow the other day, a stranger here, with two 
children, who had neither bed, fire, furniture, food, or 
anything but a few clothes. She said her children 
cried all night with cold. Is not this dreadful ? Oh ! 
how I dread the winter and the snow. I do not love 
the snow. I never loved it. It is so cold, so glittering, 
so shroud-like. I think of the earth as one great char- 
nel-house, wherein decay jostles the dead with rudeness. 
I feel the slow procession of the hours, as separately 
they pass along in one vast funeral train. I fear the 
snow, for it turns to a blank all the beautiful book that 
the south wind and the west wind and the warm rain 



266 LETTERS. 

opens for us to read. It frightens away all my little 
lovers, the ground-sparrow and the tree-sparrow, and 
the katy-did and the bee, and it hides all the summer- 
brooks so deftly that none can find them, save sweet 
Spring, and she sleeps. Why should I love the snow ? 
I am faint and shivering when it falls upon me, and 
loathe the heavy garments I must don. When I fold 
away the pretty adornings that are fitted to the season 
of the morning-glory and sweet-pea, when I consign to 
the dark wardrobe the transparent scarf and the pearl- 
white dress, I lap up in their plaits many a tear that 
will fall despite my womanly courage. May it please 
God, I die not in the days of the hoar-frost and the 
black-frost, of sleet and white driving misery. I should 
leave the world gladly, forgetting to thank Heaven for 
its beauty and exceeding loveliness. I should stretch 
out my hands toward the bannered, golden city, builded 
of emerald, and amethyst, and sapphire, forgetting 
that even with such had my pathway here been paved. 
I should lie impatiently on my sick couch, ' biding my 
time.' I would listen for the melody of the rapt 
seraphs near the throne, not remembering that the 
Lord had prepared richest music for my ear many 
thousand times, when I had not even prayed for it. I 
should say, ' Thank God, I die ! ' rather than ' Bless 
God, that I have lived ! ' 

A rhapsody, — but from the heart. L has just 

sent me up a plate of grapes. They look so tempting. 



LETTERS. 267 

I wish I could send them to you. I shall save them, 
and put them in a little basket with some melting rich 
nut-cakes that I made yesterday, and send them to a 
friend. 



LETTER XXV. 

Chatham. 

To the Same. 
Dearest, best loved Sister mine, — 

I sit down to write you with a heart full, and yet I 
have not one word to say. I have talked with you by 
night and by day for the last fortnight. I have sent 
express after express to you on fancy's wings, filled 
with the good things of the spirit, and now I have 
nothing left but that which is ' stale and unprofitable.' 
Yet I begin my letter after the old style, closely written, 
for you know I have a certain affection for old things. 
I received your blessed epistle with such joy ! It is the 
first time I have seen my own name since I came home 
written by a loved hand. But it took me a good hour 
to get over the first page. I have been tiying to inject 
myself with your cheerfulness, and have laughed and 
talked with my mother, who is an invalid to-day, in 
my desperation, and now ' in the coolness of the even- 
ing hour,' I have stolen away to write to you, where 
the laugh and song of the merry children come faintly 
up to mine ear, and I can commune with you and with 
mine own heart, and • be still.' Still ! how long ere it 



268 LETTERS. 

will be for ever and ever ! I am looking over your 
cup-of-cold-water letter, for such was it to my thirsty 
soul, and my eye falls upon ' presentiments.' And so 
you do not believe in them ? And you ridicule them 
in others ? Let me tell you, then, that when man 
walks abroad without his shadow, he will walk free 
from forebodings, and not till then. I seldom mention 
my belief or disbelief in them, ' for a haunted heart is 
a weight to bear.' But I would willingly forget that 
such things are. They go forth with me into the 
pleasant show-rooms of nature, they wrap me in their 
dim veils at noon-day, and curtain my couch in the 
quiet midnight. Sometimes they hide themselves, and 
a sweet happiness walks by my side. Mary, when we 
two parted in ' sadness and tears,' a shadow was by me. 
Think not I speak lightly when I tell you that hour was 
to me as a foretaste of death. You, the ever calm, the 
even-hearted, the hoping, trusting, never can feel such 
fitful gushes of feeling as she who has never known 
control of spirit, has been wasted as in the conflict of 
years in her short life. I hope you will forgive me. 
We shall never meet more. You say, ' this is fantasie.' 
If it be fantasie, yet forgive me. You would not won- 
der if you looked in upon me. I sit day after day in 
the rocking-chair, a martyr to neuralgia, which has not 
left me for two hours at a time since I saw you. My 
mother is almost always busy in arranging the affairs 

of our large household. My sister E is in Albany, 

M in school, and the men in the fields. So, you see, 



LETTERS. 269 

' I am alone, alone, both night and day,' but striving 
■ to do what good I may.' I teach, when I can, four 
little tiny children, and when I cannot, I lie down and 
rest. Thus, like a weary dream, goeth away my time 
into the vast abyss of the past. ; The rain, it raineth 
every day,' and only once have I ridden out. 1 walked 
Sherry out a couple of miles, but I do not love to ride 
as I used to. Now I am not going to say another word 
of the dismals to you. 

Since you positively request me to write in that 
agreeably diversified way, which in geography is called 
1 picturesque,' in criticism ' graceful,' in the Pickwick 
Papers ' promiskus,' and in common parlance * helter- 
skelter,' (knowing beforehand my utter inability to 
write in any other style than the ' antique,') you will 
see as you go on how perfectly I am fulfilling the 
request. 

It is very quiet. The poplar leaves faintly shiver in 
the low night-wind, and when it freshens among the 
branches, the trembling dancers send forth a quick 
sound like the first fall of the diamond rain of sunny 
days. There is nothing else heard, for one by one 
the busy feet have ceased their tread, and they are 
sleepers who have toiled or studied during the hours of 
light. 

I have traced your letter through to the consumma- 
tion, — the life, sufferings, and untimely death of your 
beloved sparrows. You shall have the story as soon 



270 LETTERS. 

as I have obtained the Countess of Blessington's opin- 
ion as to the style, whether it be blank verse or * blanker 
prose.' And are you quite sure as to the catastrophe ? 
I have had a revelation on the topic in hand. They 
wept their eyes out because you were not at home, and 
died, suffocated in their own tears. This is not in the 
slightest degree apochryphal, but quite the thing — very 
unromantic and extremely affecting. 

Since my return I have been reading the ' Tower of 
London,' ' Rose D'Albert,' and the ' Spirit of the Age,' 
a strange medley, and most so for me ; but anything 
on earth to drive away this terrible neuralgia, and 
sometimes I fancied I forgot it when reading. The 
first is, however, all fine dresses and dates, and long 
names. The second is what it purports to be, a tale 
of troublesome times, both in the story, the writing and 
reading, but especially in the last. Plenty of fine 
clothes in this too, and French names ; but rejoicing in 
naughty people, who contrive mischief faster than my 
mother's youngest child could do it. Do not read it » 
it is trash. The last of the three is fine ! Such pure 
and perfect language, evincing such thorough acquaint- 
ance with the subject ; such a delightful candor in 
criticism, and such a happy choice of writers ! Do 
get it, if but to read his criticism on Alfred Tennyson ; 
and I must send you Harriet Martineau's Song for 
August. It is the only poem she ever wrote, yet doth 
it not prove that she is a true poet ? You will, I know, 
read it with pleasure, wherefore I give it place rather 
than my own crude conceptions. 



LETTERS. 271 

Will you not write me something good ? Talk to me. 
Everything about yourself, your people, your house, 
your friends, your sparrows, will be welcome and inter- 
esting, and the next time I will try and do it as I should, 
as I assure you I really can. You must get that ' Spirit 
of the Age ; ' it is glorious. I have been reading it for 
the third time to-day. Next week I suppose Emma will 
be with you. I shall gather flowers and twine a garland 
for each of you. Good night ! You are sleeping now, I 
know ; but if you feel a kiss on your lips in your slum- 
ber, know it was your ever loving 

Mary. 



LETTER XXVI. 

Monday noon. 

To the Same. 

I have just completed a grand Auto-da-fe, or general 
desk delivery. Have burned at least a bushel of 
papers and letters, and finished by a furious sweeping 
and dusting. It always makes me melancholy to 
destroy papers. There were letters filled with sweet 
wishes, and joyous young hopes ; letters from those 
whom I never think to see again. There were a hun- 
dred sheets written closely in my own cramped hand, 
page after page, over which I had poured my whole 
soul — unprofitable employment for a ' worky-day 



272 LETTERS. 

world ; ' there were the fruits of long hours of appli- 
cation, a thousand trifles beside, and away I sent them 
all to the fire. 

How strange it seems that our triumvirate should be 
so soon dissolved, — you and Emma loved, won, and 
carried away to new homes. I, (I speak this with 
truth, for I know it is so,) admired for what they are 
pleased to call my ' gifts,' (' I had rather be a kitten 
and cry mew,') flattered in words that I do not care to 
hear, praised for my good nature, abused for my pride, 
slandered for my free speech, censured for my chilli- 
ness — and all these, more and more, but most flat- 
tery — I half envy you. And yet, every woman's, if 
not every man's, destiny is in her own hands, and we 
are what we choose to be ; so I do not grumble. I do 
not appreciate others, and do not ask them to know 
me. 

Dear Mary, (I will say dear, though it is old-fashion- 
ed,) how good that little letter of yours is ! It confirmed 
my faith in you, that needs no confirmation, and I am 
less disappointed than I would have been, had I not 
already foreseen that you would not come down here. 
Oh ! how often I fancy you here. In the long, long 
nights, sleepless as of yore, I weave little romances, 
of which you are the heroine, and being fettered by 
dread of no one's criticism, 1 conduct them to an end 
just as suits me best. I never felt the necessity of self- 
control more forcibly than now, and never possessed 



LETTERS. 273 

less. Forgive me for speaking so at length of my 
own feelings, but it is a sort of mental relief, as it is to 
the patient to expand his narrative of suffering to his 
physician, — not that you can heal me. I must be sub- 
missive, and for one who is in reality as well as I, I 
suffer a strange variety of pain. 

I hope that you, darling, will forgive me all that I 
said about duty, &c. in my last letter. I write in haste 
to repent at leisure, but you did not quite understand 
me. I did not want you to think me too selfish, too 
grasping ; I know you have so many drafts on your 
time, I want you to do that which gives you the most 
pleasure. When you write home, will my love be too 
burdensome to transmit ? Is it not light ? With a 
whole heart full of love, good night. 



LETTER XXVII. 

Albany. 

How delightful has this winter been in its mildness ! 
I hate snow so much that it has really been a season of 
gratulation for its absence. I walk out every day, and 
in the clear, sweet air and warm sunshine almost re- 
cognize beloved Spring. I have heard of violets on 
the banks of the Oswegatchie, but there are none here. 
However, I plucked a full-blown dandelion New Year's 
18 



274 LETTERS. 

week at home. There is a little snow this morning, 
but the sun will soon melt it. I find the world, 
which I left last March, very much the same sort 
of world now ; still it is much easier for the many to 
forget the individual, than the individual the many. 
Sickness and health, poverty and riches, gladness and 
sorrow, have all gone on in their appointed missions 
among men, and however much I may have suffered, 
I know of none of my friends whose last twelve 
months of life I would have changed for mine. I am 
often reminded of Richter's words, c By great sor- 
rows the heart is protected against small ones — by 
the water-fall against the rain.' So with me ; a thou- 
sand things have passed unheeded, that once would 
have grieved and excited me. Have you never found 
it so ? 



LETTER XXVIII. 

Albany, Nov. 27, 1844. 



To the Same. 



The snow is falling, Mary, — 
The silvery, dancing snow ; 
It husheth all the mirth 
Of our fair and goodly earth, 
As it cometh all so silently, 
Swaying to and fro. 



LETTERS. 275 

But ' the heart's fireside,' Mary, — 

It burnetii bright and clear ; 
What though the snow-flake falleth, 
What though the tempest calleth, 
It dimmeth not the flame of Love — 
Of Love the ever-dear. 

But oft its flashing, Mary, 

Shows little corners dim ; 
Where sitteth trembling Fear, 
Where coucheth Sorrow drear, 
And Faith in gloomy shadow 

Sings but a mournful hymn. 

I am going to write just as if we were sisters, — thou 
the good, hoping, forgiving one, — I, the erring, wan- 
dering, feeble girl, — feeble in heart and body. Those 
were merry days, were they not, Mary, when we chat- 
ted over thy drawings ? I know every one of them 
this minute, made when we walked that one walk so 
often, and wrote little billets, scandalizing our good 
teachers ! How I have wanted to sit by thee once 
more in my own room, and talk over my own affairs ! 
My affairs ! truly, be it known unto thee that I, even I 
am grown to be a woman of business. I carried to the 
printer's this morning the last sheets of our magazine 
for January, 1845, ' The Monthly Rose.' Thou wilt 
patronize it, Mary, I am sure, and obtain, oh ! how 
many subscribers ! It is to be written by the girls of 
the Academy, past, present, and future. I took thy 
4 Crystal Spring ' to slake our editorial thirst, and .so 
sweet was the draught that I longed for more. It will 



276 LETTERS. 

appear in the first number ; and I never mean to take 
such a license again, albeit I know well thy goodness 
and long-suffering. But give me a carte-blanche, sister 
mine, please do, with some of thy essays that are lying 
in the cases here. Strike the ever yielding rock of thy 
inspiration, and bid many more such fountains gush 
forth. My faith in thee is strong. 



LETTER XXIX. 

To the Same. 

You will think that I have forgotten my old punctu- 
ality, and are not even haunted by its ghost. When I 
received your letter, every moment I had was devoted 
to nursing a young man who was lying on the threshold 
of death. Our family received your messages of re- 
membrance with pleasure, and all desire me to convey 
to you their love and wishes for your happiness. 

As married ladies always show their letters, I would 
be glad to make this such a one as you would not be 
ashamed to tell your husband was the production of 
your best friend ; but incapacity, like murder, i will out.' 
Some say the defect is in my head. I think it is in 
my heel, where there is such a shocking chilblain. I 
think Thetis must have plunged me in the Styx, as she 
did Achilles, all but my i heel ' by which she held me, 



LETTERS. 277 

(vide Homer,) and this spot was the only one vulne- 
rable to Jack Frost. 

I have had only one sleigh-ride this winter. Judge 
whether it was a joyful one, when it led me to a hovel 
where an insufficiency of lights, fire, food, and clothing 
made winter dreadful. You know I hate sleighing, and 
snow, and ice, and all other manifestations of cold 
weather. When I am queen, in my realm there shall 
be no winter, but one long, golden, glowing summer. 
There shall be a perpetual shower of rose leaves on 
my grass, and the poplar leaves shall be the only crea- 
tures to shiver all the year round. There shall be a 
violet-colored twilight to last all night, and sweet winds 
in the morning. I was a summer child, and am true to 
the season that gave me birth. How can you like 
snow ? It is so unmeaning, dead, stifling. I would 
rather see the coarsest brown furrow in dear mother 
earth's wrinkled face, than all the snow that ever fell. 
I suppose you like Miss Bremer's ' Strife and Peace,' 
with its storms, and ice-fields, and rushing Aas-gaar- 
dreja ; so do I, a little at a time, when my head is hot, 
for its coolness. 

I have no news of the world at large that you do not 
know. The rill of my general information is quite 
dry. 

I received the account of your being happy without 
a particle of emotion. It is nothing more than what I 
expected. People very often are so, when well-matched 
in marriage, though it is becoming rather rare at pres- 



278 LETTERS. 

■ent, and will probably go entirely out of fashion. (I 
would advise no one who thinks of marrying to read 
Jean Paul.) You present quite a pretty picture of 
yourself and ' gude mon ' of an evening, reading and 
listening ; that is very conjugal ; but, Mary dear, you 
will be too good a wife to be a literary one. A new 
year has come again, and with it, new hopes and de- 
sires. I thank God fervently that it has brought me 
health and happiness, and thank Him, too, for the good 
gifts it has bestowed on my dear friends. May you 
not forget Him in your present happy situation. He 
will not forget you. 



LETTER XXX. 

Chatham. 

' I am sitting on the ' stairs, Fannie, trying to write to 
you with an awful steel pen. Time was when I was 
glad to get a steel pen ; but prosperity puffs us all up, 
and I am not exempt from the ' all. 1 I have been used 
to tracing characters so long with a golden stylus, that 
this plebeian affair seems altogether detestable. I can- 
not use the other, because I found on Friday that the 
points were like the bill of a cross-bill, clean snapped 
across each other, so I sent it off to Albany to be re- 
paired. So much for the pen. 

I suppose this will find you in the very thick of 
stitching and hemming, — how much cambric « as fine 



LETTERS. 279 

as a cobweb ' it will take for a given purpose. Oh ! 
these odious preparations ! I hate the word ! I fer- 
vently echo Christina's ejaculation — ' Let what shall 
happen, happen quickly,' — especially weddings. I 
can do almost anything off-hand, if I do not stop to 
consider, from swallowing a great allopathic dose of 
bitter medicine to saying very hateful things to my 
dear friends ; but if I must pause and ponder, and 
weigh and measure, and span with my fingers and 
pace with my feet, I am apt to take a disgust for the 
coming event, whatever it may be, and give up the 
matter altogether. Dear me ! how I pity the child ! 
There she sits, worried and flurried, and fancying a 
thousand troubles, large and small, and repeating, 'I 
hope ' and ' I wish,' a hundred times a day. I do not 
envy you, Fannie. I like to have hopes and wishes 
made void by instant fulfilment. What says Jean 
Paul the Only — ' Seeking was invented by Luthanus, 
and waiting by his grandmother.' Oh, wearisome pre- 
parations ! I should like to live in a magic world where 
everything should come and go at once and silently, 
unexpected and unthought of till then. I think I should 
marry some day, if I could meet for the first time, on 
a calm summer's morning, a cavalier of noble pres- 
ence, whom I should like at once, and who should 
woo me and wed me before the birds had finished 
their matins, — not else. And I should like to have 
my wedding paraphernalia come to me, as did that 
of Aladdin's bride to her, wrapped in fine napkin on 



280 LETTERS. 

golden trays, borne on the heads of fifty Nubians. I 
could not endure to tear off breadths, and count hand- 
kerchiefs, and quilt ruffles, and buy spoons, and ever 
so much china, not to speak of the kettles, pails, tin 
pans, scrubbing brushes, and soap and candles. Pah ! 
Where is the romance of getting married ? You 
know, dear, I do not object to doing all this for my 
friends, if I must ; but to mingle up with ' a lyrical 
intoxication of love in which one forgets heaven and 
earth,' all those foreshadowings and hereafters is truly 
shocking. Horrible preparations ! It is like sharpening 
the razor before one cuts one's throat, or feeling of 
the water to see if it is cold before you leap off. 

Now I think you are getting indignant, are not 
you ? And you hope I may have something dreadful 
happen to me some day, do you not ? But there will 
not, for all that, let me tell you. I shall never be 
troubled when J have company, for fear the biscuit 
will be burned. I shall not say meekly to my lord, 
What will you have for dinner ? and stand in mortal 
fear lest ma chere mere should not like her daughter- 
in-law, — not I, so you need not wish anything naugh- 
ty about me ; it will not come to pass. 

I suppose you were not sorry that you went home 
when you did, as the roads grew so much worse. It 
was a fortnight after I returned before I could go out 
at all, for the bad weather. How long I shall keep 
the memory of my visit bright and green ! I shall 
never forget our last visit at Emma's. It was very diffi- 



LETTERS. 281 

cult for me to be cheerful when I remembered what 
changes had come upon us, and what sorrows and 
joys had been ours since we there met last, and then 
I looked out into the dark, lonesome Future, and won- 
dered what lay there in our three pathways, whether 
beasts of prey or angels of mercy. It is evident we 
shall always live apart, even if we grow to be old ; 
that we shall meet only once in many years, and so, 
gradually new interests will spring up with each of us, 
and new ties and affections, for women have when 
married so little individuality ; and then we shall at last 
nearly forget each other, or wonder how we could ever 
have supposed we should always be fond of each other. 
Is it not strange how we do change ? I shall not for- 
get you quite so soon, because some day I may write 
a book of good examples, and then I shall put a couple 
of chapters in for you and Emma. 

There is a fearful commotion about house to-day. 
It is the commencement of house-cleaning, (think of 
that as one of your probable futures ! ) and two African 
women in plaid kerchiefs, and an Irish girl, are making 
the house uninhabitable from parlor to kitchen. Every 
soul of them is wearing the very minimum of skirts 
and faded calico dresses, (did you never observe that 
this is the invariable costume of house-cleaners?) and 
they clatter about in old leaky shoes, not mated, that 
they pick up in closets and garrets, and carry pails of 
water much too full over the carpets that yet remain 
on the floors, and the blacks are splashed and smeared 



282 LETTERS. 

with hideous droppings of whitewash, and the Irish girl 
is tattoed with smut. They drag out helpless coffee 
urns, and tattered prints, and mouse-eaten papers, and 
cobwebbed books, and then put them back again, and 
make a great deal of dust, and call loudly through the 
dismantled rooms, and find everything that is of no 
use, and clutter up all the passages, and do a vast 
number of other useless and uncomfortable things. 

Two or three days after. 
Just at this juncture I was called off to get tea, and 
have not been able to resume my pleasant task of 
writing to you since. I am housekeeper, cook, and 
maid-of-all-work this week. I rose at four this morn- 
ing, went away up the hills towards the sun into the 
woods, and over mossy paths, listening to the early 
birds, and gathering winter-greens and other spicy 
leaves for some beer for father, hunting about for the 
first flowers, screaming to frighten a cloud of crows 
from the pine-tops, and gaining health and happiness 
from the sweet air and exercise. Then I came back 
and made coffee, set tables, baked hot cakes, &c, and 
ate my brown bread and milk. During the morning I 
made and baked biscuits, cakes, wafers, and meat-pies. 
And having frosted my cakes, I have nothing to do this 
afternoon but sew and write to you. Have I not a 
medley of employments ? I love to do these things for 
those I love, though I seldom eat much of my own 
cookery. I love to make my dishes look nicely, like 



LETTERS. 283 

Imogen, who c cut our roots in characters, and sauced 
our broths, as Juno had been sick, and she her caterer.' 
I meant to take this letter to the office this afternoon, 
but the perverse clouds, — no, the beneficent clouds, — 
are gently raining on the short grass, and I cannot ride 
out. 

I suppose you have so much else to think of, so 
many pretty dreams and speculations, that the Spring, 
for its own sweet sake, excites very little pleasure in 
your mind. As a general proposition, the coming 
of green leaves and disappearance of snow-banks, as 
well as the visitation of blue-birds and sparrows, is a 
very agreeable affair altogether ; but I do not suppose 
you go wasting your few precious maiden hours along 
the full brooks, or pulling the withered leaves away 
from the liver-leaf roots to let in the warm sun upon 
them, or gathering winter-green berries and last year's 
acorns, to carry to unknown squirrel-haunts as a treat to 
the little harlequins. How my cheek burns ! Is it 
you, Mary, that is saying something bad about me ? 
Say on ! it is not true. 

I think I never wrote you so dull a letter. I begin 
to feel already as if my little share of your heart was 
4 clean gone forever,' and I could not interest you pos- 
sibly. How naughtily we talked of . It is strange 

we ladies are so unmerciful to each other. I doubt 
not she said the same style of things of us. Did you 
ever see such a heap of affectation, such pretty airs, 
and pretended literary tastes and criticisms, such an 



284 LETTERS. 

artillery of glances and drooping eyelids, and jewelled 
fingers ? These are the silly girls that make foolish 
women, indiscreet wives, and careless mothers, and 
bring our sex into disgrace unmerited. It almost angers 
me to see girls of fine minds and persons, slowly mur- 
dering true goodness and simplicity thus, — bending 
every blessed gift of Heaven to obtain the unworthy 
aim, — admiration. Some poor fellow will be attracted 
by her pleasing manners one day and marry her, and 
then, — (oh ! how uncharitable !) 

Some time when you are not engaged, please say on 
paper, with a pencil, ' Mary, I think of you pleasantly, 
— I am well,' — and send it to me. 

From your loving 

Mary C. 



LETTER XXXI. 

Chatham, April 12, 1851. 
My very Dear, — 

The spirit of house-cleaning having moved me all 
day until I am incapable of further motion, has de- 
parted, and the far more agreeable spirit of friendship 
has taken possession of my heart, and prompts my 
tired hand to pen a few irregular lines to you. On 
my return from Albany this week, I found an affluent 
epistolary shower had descended upon my desk dur- 



LETTERS. 285 

jing my absence. For some of the drops I felt quite 
obliged, others flattered me, some wearied, but yours 
made music in my heart, and I wished to be like those 
tiny creatures, that at this season spread gay wings, 
and fly where they will. I could nestle close to you ; 
and if, in the transformation, a pleasant little voice was 
left me, I would tell you a short story with it, far more 
pertinent than the silly repetition of 4 Katy-did ' — it 
should be ' Mary loves thee, Mary loves thee.' Nothing 
gives my blood a happier flow than your letters. I am 
so glad that I know you, and can write just as I think. 
I dislike to pen a letter as I would an essay on consti- 
tutional law, or metaphysics. 

I am sorry to hear Miss is so delicate. She 

is young, and youth is potent to resist disease. I hope 

she will recover. But so many young ladies of • 

die early, I cannot but think there is a prestige of 
4 passing away ' about her. 

Of course you enjoy house-cleaning ! We are in 
the midst of that process. What a revolution it makes 
in the whilom stable structure of household felicity ! 
The whole fabric of domestic comfort seems suddenly 
to cave in. One's Lares and Penates frown grimly 
upon their owner from accustomed places, carpets 
slide from under the feet, chairs disappear from their 
usual corners, books flutter their leaves in discontented 
heaps, not a cat can purr in unconcern, not a dog 
catch a wink of sleep in his common nook. And then 
the men ! What a plague of Egyptian darkness they 



286 LETTERS. 

are at such periods, — never sympathizing a whit with 
the priestesses of these annual orgies, and eating their 
cold dinners without a word of thanks. Luckily we 
fear disturbing father's equanimity with our ceremo- 
nies, so the ' pomp and circumstance ' of the occasion 
are studiously kept out of sight, and the sirloin is roast- 
ed, the pudding boiled as usual. M does not dare 

say ' white-wash ' or ' sand ' this side the hall. 

M goes to Albany this week. I shall keep the 

house and Mary Story while she is gone. The 
flowers are suddenly come upon us, and my household 
cares will be mingled with forest rambles ; shall fry 
omelets with scarlet Balm-of-Gilead tassels in my hair, 
and a cluster of liver-leaf stuck in the waist of my 
checked apron. Mary and I are making beautiful 
imitations of flowers for some moss baskets, — roses, 
gillias, violets, lilies, syringas, heath-bells, etc. : they 
are charming. 

You would like to see how well I am, dear . 

I walk two or three miles and back, up and down these 
steep hills, without much fatigue, — ride a great deal, 
eat, sleep, and do all things that sensible people do. I 
look slight, but am elastic enough to make up for that. 
The sun shines so warm and soft, the wind blows so 
sweetly, there are such bursts of music, such clear 
white clouds in the west, one cannot but be happy and 
feel a continual thanksgiving to the Lord of Life and 
Beauty for all He has ereated. Oh ! in these golden 
days, how can we doubt that our Father means we 



LETTERS. 



287 



shall be very joyous ! Shall the small birds rejoice and 
the trees burst their buds in the sunshine, and the 
flowers and streams be glad together, and we, only we, 
be dull and thankless ? 

My love to Dr. , and may he ever breathe the 

exhilarating gas of health and happiness, and escape 
the nitrogen of misfortune, and the explosive fire-damp 
of accident. 

Your loving Mary M. Chase. 



LETTER XXXII. 
To Mrs. 

A SHORT AND CRUSTY ODE 
FOR A BIRTH-DAY. 

As this, my dear E., is thy birth-day, 
I strove the whole morning to write 

A few lines — an ode, or a sonnet, 
But alas ! not a word could indite. 

For dactyls and spondees went dancing 
With pepper and spice through my head ; 

And the figures of speech that I wanted, 
Were figures of pastry instead. 

The cream of my thoughts went to custard, 
I flung feelings and peelings both by, 

And my types, like the types of a printer, 
Were suddenly turned into ' pi-' 



288 LETTERS. 

I tried to compose thee a stanza, 
But could only a pudding compose ; 

And I found it was meet for the dinner, 
That the meat should be roasted in prose. 

Quite vainly my ideas were mustered, 
For the mustard was all in my eye, 

And instead of Castalian potations, 
Behold the potatoes were dry ! 

The only measures I made 

Were measures of sugar and meal, 
And when I my thoughts would have whetted, 

I whet the great knife on the steel. 

Oh, me ! those wearisome air- tights ! 

For if they are heated, you know, 
By the fire of imagination, 

The cake will surely be dough. 

I 'm afraid that mine may be reckoned 

An uncommonly flowery muse, 
But with flour I so long have been busy, 

My flourishing style must excuse. 

I haste, for my oven is heating, 

And only linger to say, 
May I cook thee many a dinner 

On many a coming birth-day. 

Mary M. Chase. 



LETTERS. 289 

LETTER XXXIII. 

Brooklyn, June 15th. 
My Dear, — 

Did I not know what a feverish, excited life you live 
in the summer, I would be vexed at the little note you 
sent me after an epistolary abstinence of more weeks 
than my arithmetic covers. Luckily, I am just as 
busy as you are, and had I temper, have no time to be 
more generous than you ; so I am going to send you 
this dot of a letter, hoping to raise at least a contemp- 
tuous ' pshaw ' in your heart. I think of you and 
Stockbridge, and the laurels, often enough, I assure 
you, for one who is in duty bound to render up all 
thoughts, hopes, and wishes for the use and behoof of 
five hundred several souls. I am so slight in person 
that I have had serious fears lately that I should one 
day be nothing hut soul, • without local habitation or 
name,' before my time. But now a new fear has 
come upon me, viz., that I shall have no soul left soon, 
— I have to exhaust the intellectual resources of my 
nature so thoroughly every day. 

I trust you are having as delightful weather as 
graces these two graceless cities. It seems a wasting 
of good providences to spread out so magnificent 
a sky above heads that rarely look up to it. Mrs. 

P drove me out yesterday and the previous day, 

19 



290 LETTERS. 

some miles on the island, and how delicious was the 
smell of the white clover ! so of the sweet brier and 
the wild roses along the road. To-morrow I go to 
stay awhile with her : I cannot tell how long. It will 
be very pleasant there, but I am already attached to 
this household 



LETTEK XXXIV. 

Our domestic machine revolves 

about as usual, our family fluctuating more than any 
stocks that are sold in Wall Street. I suppose you 
saw the eclipse, which I did not. I have been busy 
to-day, washed two dresses for myself this morning to 
drive away a bad head-ache contracted by sewing, 
and then sat down two hours to entertain a gentleman 
from New York ; kept a cheerful little flame on the 
hearth for Cousin Ed., who talked and read ' Yeast,' 
embroidered on a set of ruffles for my new dressing- 
gown, assisted in cooking dinner, sewed again, brushed 
my hair, and ran away to scribble a half dozen notes, 
because father is going to the post-office. This is not 
a fair sample of my days, as I ride out a good deal. 
Pardon the dullness of my note, as you see I am 

affected by the eclipse 

I should like to tell you about the sea, but one or two 
persons have mentioned the subject before, and I can 



LETTERS. 291 

say nothing new. At Lynn, when it was pleasant, I 
went in the morning on a great rock, around whose 
base the waves calmed into mere ripples, lisped and 
murmured some liquid syllables that I could not trans- 
late. There in a little hollow I coiled like a black 
snake in the sun, watching how the silver white flowers 
were born and vanished on the undulating swells of 
that faithless blue meadow, and wondering if the sea- 
serpent were pasturing there ; and if he should chance 
to come along and snap me up like a dandelion top, 
what a paragraph it would make for the ' Lynn News.' 
At low tide the top of numberless rocks are visible, 
covered with thick palls of sea-weed, like half-drowned 
giants or submerged Medusas, black and shaky. No- 
body ever goes to that cove, and there is no sign of 
life there, except the living, thrilling, unrest of the sea. 
The other day I went alone to Long Beach in the 
storm to see the breakers, and it i paid' well. Though 
I was frozen with the cold, buffeted with the wind, and 
stunned with the roar, yet I could not resist following 
the retreating waves down the sands ; but quick of foot 
was I when back came a mighty green billow crested 
with curling foam, and throwing the foam far beyond 
me. I did not try races with the breakers again ; but 
when the under-tow sweeps so gracefully back, one 
feels an absolute desire to be borne along with it. I 
am not afraid of the sea ; it never would be unkind 
to me, though it has swallowed up so many of my 
kindred 



292 LETTERS. 



LETTER XXXV. 

The last night of 1851. 
My DEAR E, — 

Though ' it rains and the wind is never weary,' and 
my thoughts to night are hardly cheery — though 
sleepily winking, I cannot help thinking that just at this 
hour you are probably drinking your souchong or 
pouchong or oolong, or whatever your taste in tea may 
be. For my part, I never dare get in the habit of sip- 
ping that beverage, for it makes ten old maids in a 
month, on an average. Indeed, I am sure as can be, 
that our poor, dear Mother Eve, when she could not 
endure to see ripe fruit untasted and like to be wasted, 
went out to the tree while she waited to see if Adam 
would finish his ' chores ' before tea, picked up just as 
many as then she was able, and piled them all neatly 
upon the tea-table. So the greenings and pippins, with- 
out any doubt, were washed down with the rill from 
the tea-pot spout, and the sin of the fruit was imputed, 
you see, to its otherwise harmless coadjutor, tea. 

But stop. I confess, though I meant to digress, 
'twas not for so long drawn a sentence I guess. There's 
nought in my room but silence and gloom ; lonely 
I sit by shadows enshrouded, where lately tall people 
and short people crowded ; and but as a dream the 
memories seem of the good folks that came and the 



LETTERS. 293 

good folks that went, of the glances and words that 
were given and lent. I say, well-a-day ! I cannot 
believe it that Christmas is gone. I scarce did per- 
ceive it. Bowing here, turning there, with distraction 
and care, I scarcely knew where, away flew the 
hours, and away you went too, and I wanted to weep 
when you sped from my view. Father, sisters and 
brothers are united in saying you did us a wrong by 
such very brief staying. Father declares that the 
doctor and he scarce bartered a word at breakfast or 
tea ; he also avows with inflexible air, he is going 
to Stockbridge himself, to take care. I know he will 
do it whoever may rue it. 

Pray tell me, my dear, if any one knows how hardly 
it froze amid Berkshire snows, the day you so cruelly 
4 up ' and departed and left us alone — forlorn, broken- 
hearted — twelve degrees worse than nothing, the 
weather clerks say, the thermometer stood at in town 
on that day ? 

And tell me, besides, if you possibly can, 

what woman or man could have left a white petticoat ? 
Up stairs we found it, with a binding at top and three 
tucks all around it. A nice undersleeve, too, did some- 
body leave, who doubtless doth grieve, and a pair of 
elastics that nobody knows, along with a pair of black 
silk hose. A black crape shawl was found in the hall, 
and I rather think that this is all. Poor Annie Story's 
gloves were not there, and so Mr. Farwell just lent her 
a pair. I did get some breakfast that day at eleven — 



294 LETTERS. 

and Cousin Ned declares 'twas a plenty for seven. 
That day it was dinner from morning till night, and 
people were going as long as 't was light ; and so 
't was the next, till vexed and perplexed, I could have 
e'en cried, but occasion denied. Friday evening, a 
very gay circle and merry, closed in round the stove 
that was red as a cherry ; while I in a corner played 
little Jack Horner, and stole now and then a small 
nap, homoeopathic, which I wished in my heart could 
have been allopathic. Some jested, some punned, 
some squibbed and some fibbed, and then Mary Story's 
clear warble rang out, and pretty Grace Clark bore 
the melody out ; I dozed in the corner (nay, it's too 
true,) and dreamed a sweet dream of Stockbridge and 
you. On Saturday, off we dispatched one more cargo, 
and on the remainder we laid an embargo. Sunday 
again, but tempest and rain declared 'twas in vain to 
go out to the meeting, and so we kept Sabbath by 
talking and eating ; and, as sure as I live, your ser- 
vant, this sinner, did penance for sins by cooking the 
dinner. Roast beef, duck, and dressing demanded 
such pressing attention, I almost neglected to mention 
that some one must read in the Bible for me, while I 
mashed down the turnips and served up the tea. 

That evening I doubt it was raining without, and 
the wind round about kept a wild savage rout ; but 
within it was cheerful, contented and good, and I 
would not have changed it a whit if I could. Father 
sat on the lounge, and I could not but see how lonely 



LETTERS. 295 

'twould be when my head on his knee no longer 
might drop down at even to rest, or his dear arm en- 
fold me at morn on his breast. 

It is late and the year has almost fled. Let's utter 
a prayer for the well-nigh dead. Oh, eve and dawn ! 
oh, night and morn ! three hundred times ye have 
come and gone, while round the fiery-featured sun 
one course our ancient earth has run. For each bright 
day now swept away, wherein we wrought not, 
thought not, prayed not, for the greater glory of thee, 
our God ; oh, let its record swift be trod beneath thy 
foot, while we anew begin our lives with purpose true ! 
We come to bury the old and worn, his brow is fur- 
rowed, his garments torn. We write on his head- 
stone, — pause and see where thou a twelvemonth 
hence may be. Toll for the dead — toll for the dead ; 
the frozen earth is over his head ; Heaven pardon his 
sins, he meant so well, — toll, toll the bell ! 

Mary M. Chase. 



LETTER XXXVI. 

WITH THE GIFT OF A c PRUDENCE.' 

Take it not ill, I pray thee, that I herewith offer to 
thy use a little Prudence ! It may seem at first sight 
to be a small thing and humble, and yet even the com- 



296 LETTERS. 

fort of a sovereign might be increased by it. For 
what saith the seventh volume of the sage Zoroaster ? 
1 Prudence becometh a woman, and let no man despise 
it. She who hath none is even as one who goeth 
thinly clad in the winter time, or as one devoid of 
knowledge. What availeth the fine plaitings of hair 
and jewels and waving plumes, if a little Prudence be 
wanting ? It is nought, saith the idle, but when she 
goeth in the streets she repenteth. I beheld one 
clothed in costly garments ; she was fair to look upon ; 
but when the storm came, she walked as one in great 
suffering, for she had no Prudence.' 

So spoke this remarkable sage, and therefore I trust 
thou wilt not esteem it too light a thing to be worn by 
thee daily, for truly it may be renewed at little cost. 
The widest mantle that Charity ever bestowed is not 
enough unless Prudence crown it. It hath been said 
in detraction of its merit, that this gift l plays round 
the head, but comes not near the heart,' but there is a 
fitness in all things, and while the aforesaid mantle 
comforteth the one, the province of Prudence is prop- 
erly to warm the head. Here it should abide like unto 
a cap, that finishes the whole costume. 

Prithee, remember how thou didst complain of the 
coldness of this world, wherein I deeply sympathize 
with thee. Since thou hast felt its keen breath, espe- 
cially in thy goings to and fro in the great city, thou 
wilt have occasion to fortify thyself with this my Pru- 
dence, I trust. When Winter bloweth a rude blast in 



LETTERS. 297 

thine ear, it shall no more tingle ; when the black 
frost smiteth the roses, thine shall be blooming as 
ever. And fear thou not to make me a loser by it. 
What saith the wise man ? * That which I gave I 
have."* 

While preparing a little Prudence for thee, a beau- 
tiful beam of Happiness came to my heart, which else 
might not have visited me. Therefore no thanks, for 
Happiness is better than Prudence. 

Mary C . 



LETTER XXXVII. 
To the Same, — 

WITH THE GIFT OF A PAIR OF WRISTLETS. 

I have wrought thee wristlets, dearest, 
All for those fair hands of thine ; 

Wrought of wool, the whitest, clearest, 
And of silk, so soft and fiue ; 

'Neath this pleasant morning's sun, 

Dearest, wilt thou try them on ? 

Dost thou like my wristlets, dearest ? 

Wilt thou be content to wear 
Their slight bands whene'er thou fearest 

Chilly winds and frosty air ? 
And will they remind thee ever 
That my love is wasted never ? 



298 LETTERS. 

The other day I had the presumption to offer you a 
little prudence, but now I exceed it in assuming to cuff 
you without the slightest provocation, even more, to 
hand-cuff you ! But I pray you to look with leniency 
on my errors, (in the stitches,) and believe them bands 
of love ! Yours, Mary C. 



LETTER XXXVIII. 

Dear Mr. 

Did it not seem to you a remarkable thought in 
Mr. Thomas Traddles, Jr., of the Inner Temple, that 
when Mr. Dick was copying and could not keep King 
Charlie's head out of his mind, he furnished him with 
an extra sheet on which to record his flights of fancy, 
and so enabled him to get through his task with no 
small success? 

My employment to-day being akin to Mr. Dick's, 
(and also my special abhorrence rarely practised,) I 
have conceived the idea of following that gentleman's 
example. As I write, I think of fifty things not apropos 
to my subject, and make such woful errors. I have 
decided to commit to this sheet a part of my aberra- 
tions, hoping my manuscripts will improve in conse- 
quence. 

I have given up my pen in desperation, and am 
going to the woods. 

Have come back ; had a glorious time. The road 



LETTERS. 299 

above us is drifted full, and the drifts are crusted. 
Followed a wood-path a long way through the silent 
pines and oaks. Flung snow-balls at my dogs, and 
Rover threw me down in revenge. Oh, what a merry 
frolic we had. Rover drove Tray away, and then 
Tray chased him home with a great stick in his teeth. 
Sunset upon the Caatskills ! A flame-red ball slowly 
dropping behind their sharp blue outline, and stream- 
ing rose-colored light over the brown hills flecked with 
white. 

I hope you will like this little poem. It is very 
simple, but is called one of my best, and so I send it 
to you. I would not copy it for any one that I did not 
feel sure would be interested in my sweet mother. I 
wrote these lines with a quick rain of tears. I cannot 
read them now with composure. Oh, my beautiful 
mother ! I try to do right, that I may see her again. 

On the morning of her death she said : ' Set aside 
my staff, and bring me flowers.' I went out for them 
and quickly returned with a handful. She pressed 
them to her lips, laid them in sight, spoke with us all, 
— who would not have shed a tear in her triumphant 
path-way to heaven, if it had cost us a life to restrain 
them, — drew the bed-clothes smoothly across her breast, 
laid her hands meekly upon each other, and with her 
brown eyes so soft, so touching, fixed on her husband, 
her lover even in old age, gently withdrew from the 
stately form she had so long dwelt in, and we saw her 
no more ! Now do you not love my mother ? the first, 
best, Mary Chase - 



300 LETTERS. 



LETTER XXXIX. 

Chatham. 






My dear Friend, — 

Estranged, I surely said to myself, but ' repellant,' 
no ! I said, ' The well-founded hopes, the deserved 
enjoyments, the honest ambitions of my friend, have 
absorbed him quite, and it would be strange if time 
hung so heavy upon him that he should strive to kill it 
by a letter to me. I said, I have written too carelessly 
to him. I have with wilful abandonment left ajar the 
door of my soul's dwelling-place, and he has seen what 
an unthrifty housekeeper she is, and how the cobwebs 
grow there, and the dust lies thick, and the rich 
handsome raiment is tossed recklessly away, and he 
cares not for another such ill-repaying glance. 1 have 
not deserved remembrance, I said, so my friend's 
weariness of me shall prove a salutary, though un- 
palatable medicine, and if I cannot reform this unthrift 
I will hide it. 

I wonder that you wrote to me. I suppose it was a 
duty, or a compassion, or a condescension mood that 

impelled you. I knew you were in C ; Mrs. A. 

told me so in Pittsfield ; the • Tribune ' told me so in 

Lebanon ; E told me so in Buffalo ; your mother 

told my sister so in Albany ; everybody said so, except 
— yourself. What are your plans ? I am not sure but 



LETTERS. 301 

the laisser aller is the true view of life. Action ! why- 
even inorganic matter can act ; neither you nor I, nor 
all the men and women living, can any way equal the 
force of elementary matter. Action ! why the elephant, 
or the dromedary, or the horse, or the ox, can overmatch 
us in deed. In not acting lies the merit of the soul. 
They knew it who decreed criminals to solitary con- 
finement without employment. Not to stretch forth 
the hand, not to uplift the voice, not to lay hold of the 
pen, not to send forth the spirit of toil — this is true 
desert, this is worthy all praise ; and must, oh, it will, 
according to the judgment of the angels, and in the 
sight of Heaven, be rewarded. Whoever in view of 
the loveliness and awfulness of life can refrain from 
becoming an actor in its scenes ; whoever can quench 
the flame of ambition ; whoever can come down from 
the mount of prophecy, and hide in the cave of Horeb, 
as Elijah did ; he is a mighty conqueror ; such work is 
a true achievement. 

I hope this appears like a paradox ; I hope you will 
not believe it, and pray you will never have to learn 
such a lesson. I hope you will never say with Milton, 
' They also serve, who only stand and wait.' Oh, 
my soul, hold fast thy faith in God ! I am so pleased 
that you are happy. What a pleasant word that is ! 
And there are some things you would like to talk of 
with me ? But I do not think we will ever meet. It 
is writ down either in the volume of Fate or the inven- 
tions of man, that we shall have a motion like that of 



302 LETTERS. 

those binary stars which from age to age revolve about 
each other. 

I spent August in Western New York, 

and a whole life at Niagara, then home again in a 
week ; and I was ready to go for a little while to 

Brooklyn, until Mr. C could get a teacher ; but 

an utter weariness took possession of me. All the 
fatigue of all my journeying, my visiting, my sight- 
seeing, came upon me at once, and I could not go. I 
went to Lebanon. By the cold springs lingering, lying 
on the warm knolls of the mountain meadows, listen- 
ing to the leaf sounds among the vast woods, never 
thinking, never reading, never working, but dreaming, 
twining delicate fancies and half-formed visions into 
one variable intangible braid, I found rest, and rest 
to me brings health. Perhaps you have read a late 
critique on Wordsworth in the l Times.' It's a shame 
to pull down one's card-house when we are ' making 
believe ' it is a castle. If we can be comforted by the 
sweet ministry of Heaven, do let us have that harmless 
consolation — never mind if it is of the catnip-tea 
order; like that inestimable beverage, if it does no 
good, it is powerless to hurt. 

You wrote your letter on the principle of Sam 
Weller's Valentine, as I think, to make me wish there 
were more ; you make it a sort of index, such as book- 
makers put before a volume, a bill of fare, but you ask 
me to a Tantalus feast. Some time I hope you will, 

as Mr. C used to say, » Illustrate those topics.' 

Mary M. Chase. 



LETTERS. 3Q3 



LETTER XL. 



Brooklyn. 



You were never homesick, so I need not tell you that 
I am so to-day, for you would not comprehend me. 
Please understand that I went without my dinner, and 
this fine, sunny, breezy afternoon, am sitting in my 
room with the curtain half down, one slipper on, the 
other I do not know where, the pins pulled out of my 
hair, the purple tassels, that ought to make my wrap- 
per so smart, in the corner on the floor, and you will 
have a faint idea of my home-sickness. I do not dare 
to write home in this humor, but am perfectly willing 
to bestow my • tediousness ' on you for being so bad as 
to run away just as I came here. I never felt so like 
Dogberry in my life. If I have ' two gowns and every 
thing handsome about me,' I have also 'had my losses.' 
They at home objected to my coming here. As I 
heard nothing from your ' most certainly ' May visit, I 
did not feel that I was committing any breach of hos- 
pitality to come away ; had I dreamed you were really 
coming to Chatham for a day, I would have resisted Mr. 
C.'s ' more particularly,' and been there to do the honors 
for the pines and newly tasseled hemlocks. I think I am 
by nature a little silly, but I know it was the climax of 
folly to come here ; I hate to be inserted like a wedge 



304 LETTERS. 

into the cleft of emergency.* Of course, one feels 
very useful and important, but, as the politicians say, 
' It is a tight place.' I have literally succeeded to the 
labors of Miss Field, but the very slightness which 
makes me elastic at home is not so well adapted to my 
present state of compression. I only ' talk the char- 
acter,' play I am teaching — as to work, Miss F.'s 

application is out of the question. Oh, — ! this 

1 creating a soul under the ribs of death,' this giving to 
' airy nothing a local habitation and a name,' is enough 
to depress even my mercurial spirits. I shall go home 
the last of this month for a few days at least. I have felt 

badly ever since Mr. C called me to look over a 

letter he had from father. It read, 'Nothing but the re- 
membrance of past friendship would have induced me to 
part, for even this brief season, from her who is the light 
of my eyes, and in part the support of my life.' Had I 
not reason to sit down on the floor and cry ? And then 
I cried again over your letter, because I was not at 
home to show you those scenes I have so praised. It is 
all your fault ; I am glad of that. I feel like finding 
fault, a state of mind I have not been in since my elder 
sister made me pick out a whole hem in my sampler. 

* This letter was written in the spring of 1851, at the time 
mentioned in the ' Life,' when Miss Chase responded to an unex 
pected request to take charge of the Composition Department in 
the Brooklyn Academy for the summer term. The time should 
not be confounded with previous teaching in the same institution, 
referred to elsewhere in a different tone. 



LETTERS. 305 

I evinced it to-day to Miss B , my former pupil 

and present assistant, who saia 1 triflingly, ' Miss F 

did so ; ' I replied, ' I wrote reviews when you were in 
pantalets.' Think of that speech from my lips ! Faint, 

cross, weary, selfish ! And this in B , where I 

have such dear friends, and in the house where I am 
treated as a welcome guest, petted like a flower, ten- 
derly humored in my little fancies, meals provided 
such as I am accustomed to at home, a formal lunch 
sent for my sole comfort daily, with my dear hostess 
herself coming up to my pretty room, (where I have a 
bathing-closet and every hydropathic convenience,) 
how naughty I am growing ! Have you never seen a 
hardy, slender wild-flower droop and grow sickly 
when transplanted to the garden ? Even so with my 
mental arrangement. As the rudest blast of the hills 
better fits my physique than ' the sweet security of 
streets,' so the graces, the homely graces of mind that 
thrive there, seem to fly away from the smoke-laden 
atmosphere of town. I feel as thankless as if I had 
no new dresses and sleeves, and am so tired of good 
behavior and fresh ribands. I long for my straw flat, 
my plaid jacket, and the tough little stick that helps 
me climb the steep ; I will go back to them and stay 
there, — that I will. I am sorry to hear you are so 
worn by your recent exertions. The waters of Sara- 
toga are mere rivers of Damascus compared to the 
narrow Jordan of my father's meadow. Were I de- 
livered out of the hands of these accomplished Syrians, 
20 



306 LETTERS. 

I should prescribe them for you. There is just that 
dreamy stillness in our old parlor that would coax you 
to a nap on the lounge ; that bird-music o' mornings to 
gladden your heart ; that old-fashioned hospitality, that 
would make you feel at home. I would have read 
cheerful stories or poems softly for you, brought rain- 
washed flowers to your table, and made delicious 
puddings for your dinner. Does not the circle of hos- 
pitality run through those three points ? 



LETTER XLI. 

Chatham, Feb. 1852. 



Dear Mr. . 

It is just a month since you wrote me. I know I 
am replying in rather indecorous haste. I should wait 
at least another month, according to the suggestion of 
your example, but my natural perversity of disposition 
induces me to be ' contrairy ' as Mrs. Gummidge herself, 
though not exactly ' lone and lorn.' We are having 
such a long snow-storm ! There seems to be no reli- 
gion in a snow-storm, for it has been blowing and 
drifting nearly every Sabbath this winter. When I 
become ' the oldest inhabitant ' of this region, I shall 
speak of this winter as the hardest I ever knew. It 
has rained but twice since last autumn, and but twice 
has our sleighing been interrupted. I might have en- 



LETTERS. 307 

joyed the privilege of driving out nearly every day, if 
I did not hate winter so. As it is, I have almost worn 
out my mittens and gloves with 4 the lines.' 

The impression I received from your last letter, and 
yet retain, is, that in spite of what you say of your 
excellent health and happiness, is subject to ma- 
laria. 1 am confident that you have the fever-and- 
ague, and wrote me while the chill was on. You 
smile, but I am as much in earnest as ever you saw 
me. And worse than all, such affections are conta- 
gious ; for I wrote to a friend, while under the influ- 
ence of your letter, so frigidly, as to give mortal 
offence ! Let me prescribe for your malady. A small 
dose of the ipecacuanha of immediate repentance, to 
throw off the burden of present occupations ; to be 
followed by the quinine of the memory of old friends 
as a wholesome tonic, taken daily ; one application of 
the stings of conscience, by way of stimulant, is good 
in extreme cases, but loses its force on too frequent 
repetition. If you could induce some friend occasion- 
ally to administer a lively effervescing draught of scold- 
ing, it would assist in the cure. I do not know but I 
would undertake it myself, if I were not pledged to 
cold water and moral suasion. But perhaps you have 
recovered from the chill by this time, so I will not 
incur the hazard of bringing it on again, by dwelling 
on the subject ; a procedure, I am told, very injudicious 
with respect to convalescents. Could you have looked 
in upon us at Christmas, our happiness would have been 



308 LETTERS. 

complete. The baker's dozen who emerged from 

B at that time, spite of snow and cold, brought 

you so vividly to my mind. If you care to know that 
you were missed and regretted, it was so. It seemed 

so strange not to see you when I saw . I felt as 

if something were lost, and how often I caught a tone 
in the gay tumult of voices that for an instant was like 
yours. I wish you had been here ! At supper I 

passed by F , (for you know we cannot improvise 

servants up here, and all became Martha's for the time 
being,) she caught my frock, and said, 'Look here, 
Mary.' I stooped, and she kissed me with her mouth 
full of grapes. How we all laughed ! You see we 
proclaimed Chatham law — everybody do as they 
please, and etiquette was made nothing of, custom 
snubbed, and fashion set in the corner to learn manners. 
If you had only been here ! 

I do not like to say anything about Kos- 
suth, but I must be honest. I ' skip ' all his speeches 
and shun all his letters. I admire the man, but I am 
tired of the ' doings.' You need not think my Boston 
cousins have chilled me about him. If I were rich I 
would give him all the ' material aid ' I could spare, if 
he would not say anything more. I hope he will suc- 
ceed. He certainly is bound to get us in the grand 
4 snatch ' game preparing abroad. I think it would be 
rather refreshing to change the tone of our politics, and 
stump the Union for Mademoiselle Liberty in a red 
cap contra old Nick in his bearskin. The great ques- 



LETTERS. 309 

tion, whether cotton gives value to spindles, or spindles 
to cotton, would be forgotten, and both spindles and 
cotton receive a new impetus. Carolina would cease 
to forbid Massachusetts from ' sliding on her cellar- 
door,' and Virginia would offer Vermont a fresh plug 
of tobacco in token of renewed fraternity. I think 
the centripetal force of the Union would be vastly in- 
creased by a little outside pressure, and if a few or 
many migratory politicians get caught in the crevices, 
so much the better. No cement equal to the blood of 
a sacrifice. There ! if I am not quite a Miss Martineau 
or Madame De Stael, I do not remember ever uttering 
so long an harangue before. 



LETTER XL 1 1. 

Chatham. 
Draw your chair — no, I will, round here by cousin 
Nell ; take some of these French lozenges ; they taste 
well ; do they not ? Do not listen to the dripping 
of the wasting snow ; the treble curtains shut out 
the south wind. Nell, so beautiful, so brilliant, with 
her radiant eyes, and quick, keen remarks and vary- 
ing expression of face, and impatient, gesticulating 
hands, — you like her, I am sure ; I thought you would ; 
I have told her about you, she is such a pet and dar- 
ling of ours. Do you feel a chill as large as a cam- 



310 LETTERS. 

brie needle from the crack of that door ? Here is this 
soft, light India shawl with peacocks and pagodas that 
I put over Nell when she lies on the lounge, and a 
cushion for your feet, and a little pillow for your head. 
Have I made you comfortable ? Sister's knitting is 
growing fast, is it not ? Does not father look like a 
grand old oak, a little dead-topped and hoary, but stout 
and storm-defying yet ? What shall we do ? There 
are the Tribune and. the Albany Express and Journal ; 
or shall we talk of Margaret Fuller, or of the Girlhood 
of Shakspeare's Heroines, and all sorts of commen- 
taries on that worthy, — Courtenay's, Jameson's, Haz- 
litt's, etc., or of Aytoun's Lays of the Scottish Cava- 
liers ? It is little use to talk of books, for we always 
ascend or descend from them to things, and then to 
people, and ourselves. We get lazily coiled into cor- 
ners or dropped on the carpet, out of all character 
of ladyhood, and so we shall to-night. How do you 
like the old parlor ? How do you like us ? We are 
real good people, let me tell you, and we fling the 
ball of life gaily from hand to hand, and little do we 
care whether it rain or snow without. I wish you 
were here ; Nell's little French soups and desserts 
would be just the thing for you. Julia would sing 
you both asleep, and sister talk you both awake. 

I would not answer your letter now if you were not 
sick ; but I think of your slippers and neuralgia, and 
I am made generous. What made you write me when 
you were ill ? I hope you will soon transfer your 









LETTERS. 311 

Parsee-like adoration to the great luminary himself, 
instead of bending before the domestic altar ; I hope 
his beneficent light and heat will make you yourself 
again. Easter has passed, and the Liver-leaf flowers, 
the l Paas-bloomies ' of the Dutch have not made their 
appearance. It was never so before since I can re- 
member. I have raked away the dead leaves over 
the violet-roots, but the buds are not yet formed ; not 
a l pussy-willow ' has blown, not an c alder-tag ' started. 
There is snow everywhere, and mud under that. 

I'm longing for the spring-time ! I'm weary of the snow ! 
I wish the drifts had melted and perished long ago ; 
I wish the early blossoms were blowing in the wood, 
And the blue-bird's warble ringing amid the solitude ; 
There should be a balsam odor up among the budding boughs, 
There should be a flood of music all the lovely things to rouse, 
There should be a rush of waters, rapid as the falcon's wing ; 
Oh ! I'm weary of the winter, I'm dying for the Spring ! 

Where does the south wind linger ? oh ! how I did rejoice 
When in my dream I listened and thought I heard his voice j 
He is loit'ring in Bermuda, or on the Spanish Main, — 
When will he spread his pinions and come to us again ? 
I tremble in my longing to hear his soft caress, 
Like some dear friend returning to comfort and to bless ; 
He will kiss the tasseled maples and in the hemlocks sing ; 
Oh ! I'm weeping o'er the winter, I'm sighing for the Spring ! 

"Where is the idler sleeping ? In vain I wait and call, — 
There comes no answering token from beneath the snowy pall ; 
The forests creak and glitter, the fields are white as death, 
The north wind blows forever a cold and biting breath ; 



312 LETTERS. 

The frost creeps up at evening across the window-pane, 
And by the glowing fireside, my crouching dog has lain ; 
I cannot wait for summer, the sunny days to bring, — 
I'm pining all the winter j oh, I'm longing for the Spring ! 

I know the time approaches, I saw the sunset glow, 
Fall redly on the clock-face three pleasant days ago ; 
I know the sun is coming to the northern Tropic back, 
Its glory always rests there upon its homeward track j 
I see the willow branches have gained a golden hue, 
The purple alder-tassels are almost breaking through ; 
Ere long the balsam-poplar its crimson drops will swing, — 
I cannot bide the winter, I must behold the Spring ! 

I know 'tis surely coming ; I feel it in my heart, 
Wild strains of joyous music seem ready thence to start ; 
Gay visions haunt my slumbers, sweet voices gently call, 
I think of those I love best, — their forms are round me, all. 
Life seems so rich a blessing ; a glad, ecstatic thrill 
Through every nerve is flashing ; my soul will not be still ; 
The south wind soon will whisper, and soon the blue-bird sing ; 
Die ! cold and cruel winter ; live, only, blessed Spring ! 

But my cry for Spring sinks into the silence of 
despair. I have nearly lost all faith in the goodness of 
God, and the prognostications of the almanac. It 
seems as if the precession of the Equinoxes had gone 
backward, and we were in the sign Sagittarius. It 
will be a long time before ' from Aries rolls the boun- 
teous sun.' 4 Gentle Spring's ethereal mildness,' is 
a humbug, the ' mysterious round ' of the seasons 
mere hocus pocus. March should be shut up in the 






LETTERS. 313 

Penitentiary as a vagrant with no visible means of 
getting a livelihood. April deserves the State prison 
for obtaining goods under false pretences. Winter 
holds on like a Loco-Foco Judge, and pays no more 
regard to pledges past, than our Canal commissioners. 
I move that a writ of ejectment be served on him, and 
that an exploring expedition be sent to the Tropics for 
Spring. This late season is doubtless to be attributed 
to the machinations of the Southern States Rights 
party, who wish to prevent their products from going 
North. They shall not have ice enough next dog days 
for a ; sherry cobbler.' 

You speak of Margaret Fuller. The book is a 
strange one. One quarter of it would be better than 
the whole. The same sentiments, praises, criticisms 
are constantly repeated. I always disliked her while 
living, but cried and took to my bed when she died. 
That last scene redeemed an unwomanly life. 

' My love, so please you, shall requite 
No woman either dark or bright, 
Unwomaned if she be.' 

I have been reading Ike Marvel's Reveries. Is it 
not a book for the Indian Summer ? So still, wrapt 
in a dreamy, liquid, golden light, with sudden stir- 
rings of passion, like the autumn wind whirling the 
dried leaves, and filled with shadowy, shifting, smoke- 
wreathed pictures, as that beautiful relapse of summer 
delights to show. 



314 LETTERS. 






LETTER XLIII. 

Chatham, 1851. 



Dear Mr. 

My pen has lain six months past in the top of its 
case, until I broke my new knife yesterday in inveig- 
ling it out, and it seems to have a chronic hair in the 
* point, now it is out. I do not like to write to you to- 
day, not at all. I would rather lay my cheek on the 
paper, — so, than do anything, and shut my eyes in 
the still sunshine, and dream. A picture for you ! A 
small dining-room, on whose walls a countryman leads 
two shaggy ponies to drink from a ruined fountain, 
year after year, and whose thirst seems like the laugh- 
ter of Homer's gods 4 unextinguished ; ' and where a 
few sheep and goats are forever nibbling slate-colored 
grass ; windows looking towards the south, through 
which the white sunshine of winter pours a glittering 
flood — how warm it is on my hair, and what beautiful 
tints it gives this blue and purple sleeve ; a little ivy 
twining up one window and a young calla in the 
other ; three bird-cages on the floor, and Dolce, Mig- 
non and Will Barnes tripping on the carpet, caressing 
each other, and telling sweet little stories ; one, two, 
three baskets of moss, flowers and evergreen vines 
with fragrant berries, giving a balsamic breath just 
here at hand ; pretty Flash, with his glittering un- 



LETTERS. 315 

winking black eye fixed upon me as he lies basking 
in the sun, in his vase before me; Father and M., 
Rover and Tray gone out for the rest of the day ; the 
pussies consigned to the pantry for the birds' sake ; 
it is so still, so sunny, I would like to fall asleep with 
my head on the table, and the trimming for Fannie's 
curtains in my lap. Instead of writing, I would like to 
speak to you. It was a maxim of the (worldly) wise 
Cardinal Alberoni, ' when you cannot act, the next best 
thing is to talk, — something may come of it.' By anal- 
ogy, when one cannot talk, the next best thing is to 
write. 

Your letter has made me feel very thoughtful, I will 
not say badly, for that would be exaggerated. I see 
you are of Sir Tobey's opinion, ' Not to be a-bed after 
midnight is to be up betimes.' I am sorry you wrote 
me when you had so much to do. I cannot endure to 
have a friend write me from any feeling connected 
with either exponent of the potential mood, except 
4 would.' 

I wish to speak of yourself, yet I do not know just 
what I would say, or how to express it. You have 
already commenced theological studies ; the strangest 
thing that ever was ! About that I do feel badly. To 
immerse your beautiful youth within the walls of a 
seminary, ruin your eyes, stoop your shoulders, for, 
how many golden months ! And that over, the weari- 
ness, the stated task, the exhausting labor, the ill- 
requited toil, the ingratitude, the selfishness, the un- 



316 LETTERS. 

appreciation, — it makes me shudder and cover my 
eyes ! Must you, will you take up this wearing voca- 
tion ? Oh, Mr. , it is too bad. I wish you were 

very rich, so that you would be tempted to live at 
ease. If you can face all the difficulties peculiar to 
this calling, if you enter upon it from a feeling of 
duty, believing yourself in the position required by 
Heaven from you, God speed you, and let none lay 
an obstacle in your path ! Teachers of the Truth are 
needed everywhere, and genius will make its own 
light to shine in every pursuit. You will ' succeed ' — 
people will admire you ; your name will be spoken 
praisingly ; some congregation will build a handsome 
church for you ; more, much more than this, you will 
have great content and satisfaction in knowing that 
you are doing good, and rendering acceptable service 
to the great Father. But why must you study ? You 
dare not enter upon the sacred office, unless you be- 
lieve that God has called you to the work. Whom He 
has called, will not He prepare ? In what respect will 
you be more fitted for His service when you have fin- 
ished your course than now ? Will you love Him 
more, fear Him more, have greater zeal for the exten- 
sion of His glory, a more perfect sense of His mercy 
and loving-kindness towards us, His beloved children ? 
Will your own life be more excellent, your lips more 
eloquent, your desire to benefit your brothers in His 
love, greater ? I do not believe it ! I do not ask you 
to believe me, for you are far wiser and better than I, 



LETTERS. 317 

but believe your own Conscience, which will tell you 
that no man, nor set of men, nor all the pious writings 
of holy men, from the foundation of the world, can 
help you one step towards becoming the minister of 
God ! Unless He teaches you, you are not taught. 
Unless the seals of His mysteries are opened by Him- 
self, you will never read aright its contents. Depend 
upon it, the profound, wonderful treatises of the subtle 
logician and accomplished orator, Paul, never won 
more hearts to love God, than the simple, fervent, ten- 
der gospel of the beloved disciple, whose school of 
Divinity was on his Master's bosom. 

But I am out of my province. I have written of 
what was no business of mine. I should not write 
thus, if I had a thistle-seed's weight of influence with 
you. 

Your letter has made me very thoughtful. How 
far off and strange you seem to me ! I read it just at 
night, and went about all the next day quite as if I had 
dropped my thimble, or could not find my scissors, 
or mislaid my Shakspeare, or lost some other neces- 
sity of life. I am growing afraid of you ; you seem 
so far off — so far off — your face is so dim and still, 
as I see you in the doorway where the white sunshine 
is dying out ! This letter needs an apology ; but they 
never taught me how to make one properly. I have 
lived too long among fetterless streams and winds. 
1 never learned the Talleyrandique use of words. 
Thanks for what you say of yourself. I shall toss up 



318 LETTERS. 

a penny in the morning to see if I shall send this to 
you. Heads ! so it goes. If you will but read it in 
the spirit in which I have written, you will not take my 
bold heresies unkindly, but commence your labors by 
setting me right. Your friend, 

Mary M. Chase. 



LETTER XLIV. 

TO A FORMER PUPIL. 



My DEAR , 

On this quiet Sabbath afternoon, my thoughts revert 
to you with such interest, I cannot forbear expressing a 
few of them. I feel that I ought not to write you without 
abstracting my mind from other cares, for you ask me 
a grave question ; and, it is too serious a one to answer 
without much reflection. Let me first thank you for 
the love and confidence of your letters. I wish I were 
more worthy of them ; I wish I were more capable of 
repaying that confidence by sound advice and whole- 
some counsel. I am like you, my darling, an impul- 
sive, high-tempered, imaginative person. I distrust 
many of my own conclusions. I rarely advise, but 
sometimes I have so clear an apprehension of duty, 
that though I cannot explain how it came, I never 
refuse to carry it out. I suppose this is commonly the 



LETTERS. 319 

case when persons have an earnest desire to act in 
accordance with the will of God. I am not one of 
those mystics who look for miracles of prompting and 
occasion, but I cannot have so low an idea of the 
greatness and goodness of God, as to suppose that He 
has ceased to communicate directly with His children. 
Whatever the professed creeds of various sects may 
be, I could point to numberless examples of true 
Christians in each, who have left undoubted evidence 
of having received such teachings and instructions as 
did not come from man, were not eliminated by any 
process of reasoning in their own minds, and were 
often entirely contrary to what prudence, choice, and 
the counsel of friends, would have produced ; but, 
having followed these teachings, they were proven by 
the result to be unerring in Truth and Right. These 
monitors are not to be confounded with the intensity of 
desire, which often produces a sort of belief that what 
we wish to take place will transpire, nor with enthusi- 
astic ecstasies which lead astray. They are the echo 
of the voice that spoke to Elijah. Like him, flee away 
from the corruptions of Ahab's splendid court, and 
fasting in spirit, hide within the cave where darkness 
and solitude dwell. Let not the whirlwind appal thee, 
nor the lire dazzle thee ; but when these natural, though 
powerful commotions have passed, fold thy face in the 
mantle of self-annihilation, and come forth from that 
darkness into the full light of God. Then whatever 
the ' still small voice ' shall utter, that do ! 



320 LETTERS. 

But, my dear child, I long to impress upon you 
what you have not yet learned, I think, knowing how 
your life has passed away. Not in action, but in 
passion, is the true life best nourished and developed. 
Herein consists the grand difference between the im- 
mortal and immediate. Matter can act, even inorganic 
combinations, with celerity and force, a thousandfold 
greater than our greatest capacities. In silence and 
solitude, the highest achievements of man have been 
wrought out — and not by labor. In the history of 
nations this is confirmed ; in the personal history of the 
Hebrews it stands out at every page ; and in the life 
of Christ, — was not the well-nigh mute and helpless 
Close infinitely more a testimony of his Godship, than 
his most amazing miracles, or the awful accompani- 
ments of his death ? None but Christ could have so 
suffered, and been silent ; none could have so blessed 
and comforted his murderers. 

I feel greatly anxious that you should pass quietly 
through two or three years to come. Do not be pre- 
cipitate. The fault of youth is haste. 

What you say of religious 'cant' is too true. It 
was always a terrible annoyance to me, and happily I 
never heard it at home. My father is a man of lofty 
religious views — the old-martyr faith — but kindly and 
genial, and inclined to affinities. He never taught us 
to rely upon any written creed, and left us the widest 
range of liberty, while he sternly upheld in his own 
life the principles he professed ; often, very often, 



LETTERS. 321 

apparently to the utter destruction of his earthly pros- 
pects. But God willed it not so, and blessed him in 
heart and soul, in family and friends, in health and 
worldly goods. I wish you knew him. He at once 
attracts the young, as he yearns to them ; and many a 
Christian heart, in many lands, and of all creeds, trace 
their first religious convictions to his original, searching, 
plain, homely remarks. It never mattered to him what 
name his friends were called by ; he always saw by 
intuition whether they possessed the vitality that lasts 
to eternity. It seems to me you now want a healthy 
atmosphere, that will teach you to rely on the strength 
God gives his children. In all great questions, human 
individuality asserts itself. In the main we live in 
masses, but in the hours of the soul's deepest experi- 
ence, it must stand nakedly alone before God. You can 
rely on none, nor need to. There are other seasons than 
that of Death, when no hand can uphold, and the ten- 
derest friends cannot come into the soul's sanctuary. 
1 would willingly spread the breadth of my weak pinion 
under you, my child, but it would be but for a little. 
Either your own must support you, or you are un- 
worthy to soar. If you ask for strength aright, it will 
come. Sometimes I fear you do not take the grand 
question of Life, Death, and Eternity, close enough to 
your heart, because their magnitude has not been 
presented to you through the perfecting-glass of suffer- 
ing. I have all along mistaken your nature, if you 

are not capable of bearing and conquering great 
21 



322 LETTERS. 

emotions. That is a weak soul which never feels 
them. 

I have no patience with those persons who glide 
through the world without a trouble. They have been 
too lazy or too weak to look life in the face, like a 
grand old giant as it is, defying us to the combat. I 
have enjoyed my years past, well, keenly ; but I have 
known as severe awful conflicts of the soul as ever 
humanity endured. I know by this we are naturally 
feeble — I know it must have been great inward 
strength (the gift of God) that could have brought me 
alive and of sound mind through my trials ; such real, 
tangible sufferings as the angels must have pitied, and 
my fellows would have wept over had they known. 
There lie before me this hour some of the fearfullest 
obstacles that ever beset me, but I will not give back. 
I have faith in God. Present and impending sorrow 
are in our midst, but we all are very cheerful ; and I 
say to you, as 1 say to myself, • nothing can separate 
us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus.' 



Dear Mr. 



LETTER XLV. 

May 27, 1852. 



Your letter came to me last night ; and to-day I feel 
as if I must write to you, but know not what to say. 
It is idle for me to attempt the task of consolation, for 



LETTERS. 323 

whatever I could say, you know already far better 
than I. It was so hard that he should have been sO 
far away, but I am sure you felt and feel it now more 
than he did. For to the invalid especially ' there is a 
tranquillizing power in the basilisk eye of Necessity.' 
We accustom ourselves to a painful situation far 
easier than we think we can. And I know that as we 
near the Eternal and Infinite, our ordinary affections 
and anxieties become so dim and unimportant, that 
what would otherwise give us pain, we hardly care for. 
I was once so ill among strangers that I thought I had 
but a few hours to live, and it was no grief to me that 
I could not see my friends. The vision of the long 
freedom of God's Forever swallowed up every ordinary 
love and desire. 

I hope Charlie did not pine for his mother and 
brothers ; and if he did, it was not for long, and he is 
past the possibility of sorrow now. 

It was very kind of you to write me, when you had 
so much to fill your thoughts. You say truly that you 
have my fullest sympathy. But that expresses so 
little ! It does not tell you how my thoughts perpetu- 
ally strayed last night from the gay chat of the parlor, 
to a hushed and sad home far away ; nor how I 
wished that I could send you something tangible, 
which would carry comfort and cheerfulness with it. 
How poor does every luxury and every creation of 
beauty, — yes, and even our tenderest words seem, 
when we would communicate by actual signs, our 
strongest feelings. 



324 LETTERS. 

I have been here four weeks, and have received only- 
two or three letters that did not contain painful news. 
I dread to open a letter. I never remember being so 
sad as I have been all the long, dreary Spring. Some- 
thing has befallen almost every one I love. When I 
wrote you last, my heart was full of tears, though I 
believe my letter was a gay one. 

My dear friend, I feel utterly unable to say anything 
to you which can either bring comfort to your heart or 
express my own sympathy. Oh, how joyous will be 
the re-union of friends among the still meadows by the 
river of the Water of Life ! How will they renew the 
affections of old among the undying palms of 4 the 
land that no mortal may know ! ' It is but a little way 
off, — very near to some of us, oh, how near ! — and 
there we shall walk in the eternal sunshine with those 
we lately wept for, and we shall acknowledge our- 
selves recompensed for all we suffered.* 



LETTER XLVI. 

Shall I tell thee, dear brother T\, of my visit to 
Greenwood ? 

We paused at the gate to let a funeral train pass in 

* This is one of the last three letters written by Mary Chase. 






LETTERS. 325 

before us, a fitting accompaniment to the scene. We 
entered, and turning down another avenue were soon 
in the heart of the grounds. Spring had been busier 
even, than the workmen. No nook so sequestered, 
but she had visited it ; no grassy tuft so low, but she had 
stooped to breathe upon it and awaken the fresh young 
blades. All among the costly monuments, over the 
nameless graves, and through the untrodden groves, 
she had flung her gifts of grass and flowers alike. 
From choice, or delay, some of those narrow mounds 
were unmarked by any stone, but Spring had not for- 
gotten them. No flaunting weed had she raised there, 
but her violets were sown on every slope, thickly as 
if rained from the cloudless skies above them. The 
cinquefoil spread its delicate fingers on the margins of 
the little pools ; the homely mouse-ear whitened many 
a knoll ; and the newly-blown wind-flower trembled in 
the May breeze. The monument erected in memory 

of Miss soon attracted my attention, rather by 

its crowded and fanciful decorations, than by any good 
taste it displayed. How great was the contrast be- 
tween it and the simple flowers around ! We rode on 
through the winding avenues by tall shafts, heavy 
sarcophagi, urns of classic design, sculptured angels 
and men, but everywhere these were to me of secon- 
dary interest. I had just come from our northern 
home where the foot-prints of winter had scarcely 
passed away, and the freshness, the genial glow of 
Nature enchanted me. It was not Greenwood in May, 
that I saw, but May, in Greenwood. 



326 LETTERS. 

Is it not wonderful that this beautiful spot was found 
just where and when it was wanted ? How surprising 
is its fitness for the purpose required ! Those num- 
berless hills, with gently sloping sides ; those warm, 
swelling knolls ; the occasional narrow tables of level 
ground, furnish an endless variety of scenery capable 
of the highest degree of embellishment. Then the 
trees, healthy, full-sized, the natural growth of the 
soil, the strongly rooted old vines, even the deep-green 
sod, have a picturesque beauty, and adaptation to the 
place, rarely seen. 

We alighted at one of the inclosures. My com- 
panion disengaged the chain that barred the entrance, 
and we stepped softly in. A narrow level was before 
us, terminating in a slight ascent. Beneath that gentle, 
sunny slope was a vault hidden from sight, where the 
dear friend who leaned on me had seen her babe laid 
the year before. Over that last home the turf had 
grown smoothly and evenly, without a scar, but in the 
mother's heart the grief was not all passed away. 
She mourned not like Israel's king for his doubly lost 
son ; nor like Rachel who would not be comforted ; 
yet, in the fullness of her Christian resignation, gush- 
ing memories of her baby-daughter would suddenly 
throng her heart, and warm tears would fall. 

I remember a few lines which came quick from my 
heart, to comfort the mother in the hour of her be- 
reavement, — they were these : 



LETTERS. 327 

, The world heeds not mere individual grief: 

Nations may sit in sackcloth for their dead ; 
The black pall hang upon the city walls ; 
The priests chant mournful hymns 'neath lofty domes ; 
And all the shops be shut, and all the ways 
Be silent whei*e was commerce yesterday : 
But when the appointed day for tears is past, 
Wide fling the doors ! The tide of life flows out, 
And all is done ! Oh ! Mother, softly weeping 
For thy lost babe, it is not so with thee ! 
Thee doth the sunshine trouble in thy room 
With its unwelcome brightness ; thee the wind 
With its glad voice annoys, and all the mirth 
Of childhood weigheth as a weary thing. 
Never shall that young voice go from thy ears, 
Nor that face from the dreaming of. thy sleep. 

Yet thou shalt not think of her with a sigh 

Forever. Now thou knowest of a truth 

There is a Heaven, where thou may'st surely dwell, 

For there thy babe hath gone ; and there she waits, 

Grown to an angel's statui-e in an hour. 

The little voice that stammered broken words 

Hath found at last the true celestial speech ; 

And all she must have suffered, might have lost, 

And all the fearful conflicts they endure 

Who bear through life a spirit purified, 

Have graciously been spared her. Look up, Mother ! 

Thy child is but an instant's journey from thee, 

And when thou goest hence, thou goest There. 

We sat on the green bank, we the two mourn- 
ers, and May the rejoicing ; and talked of the little 
sleeper beneath. A few, clear drops fell on the 



328 LETTERS. 






tremulous blades, — and then May, with her soothing 
undertones, offered her consolations, and they were 
accepted. Perhaps, thought I, I hear her voice the 
more plainly. Shall I not interpret to my companion 
that which her sorrow may have hindered her from 
hearing ? 

c See what beautiful emblems here are,' said I, c from 
which the Christian may draw comfort ! This new- 
born grass would seem a miracle were it not for 
its common growth. When it withered beneath last 
summer's sun, and crisped and dried away with the 
winter's cold, who, that had not seen it rise again, 
would believe that in those slender roots was hid a life 
which would by and by send up new, waving leaves, 
and even humble flowers, bearing seeds ? 

' So when a great and sudden grief falls upon 
us, our hope and pleasure fade and die away, and 
in the sere waste of our souls we do not believe 
there can ever spring again a living flower, — surely, 
not a fruit-bearing tree. But the Christian's faith hath 
a deeper root than he knows of until it has been tried. 
After a season of darkness and seeming death, it feels 
again the love of God like sunshine, warming it into 
life. Timidly, a little promise, like fresh verdure, is 
put forth ; then growth brings strength ; some little 
flower-stems peer up, and when the summer birds 
seek for seeds to feed their young, they come thither 
and find a bountiful harvest. 

1 Look at this daisy root. Last year a tiny seed 



LETTERS. 



329 



was planted here ; perhaps some wild wind tore it 
from the parent stalk ; now, how thickly these green 
leaves have grown from that seed ; soon a slender 
flower-stalk shall spring up in their midst, bearing a 
golden-centered, pearly-rayed star ! Was it not so 
with thy babe ? Ye laid her like a wind-driven blos- 
som, a perished daisy ; but long since she has blos- 
somed brightly among the deathless amaranths of the 
courts of Heaven. 

4 Here grows under our feet the clover with its mys- 
tic, holy symbol ; and all around the little downy leaves 
of the cerastium are thickly strewn. In a month it 
will be gemmed with white flowers, that close at the 
approach of a shower, and open only under cloudless 
skies. Thus it is with those who have no faith.' 

Deeply interesting as are the associations connect- 
ed with Greenwood, thoroughly as I admire and appre- 
ciate its intrinsic beauty, I am glad that none of our 
people are laid there, — that I shall never repose there 
myself. It seems to me that by making the resting- 
place of the dead so attractive, by visiting it so fre- 
quently, by expending so much thought and care upon 
its decoration, we wed the spirit to the material, and 
keep down the heavenward aspirations of our minds, 
which would fain ascend whither the loved have gone. 

I would keep the city of the dead sacred from care- 
less intrusion, would destroy briers and shrubs that 
might overrun its narrow streets ; I would raise a plain 



330 LETTERS. 

head-stone over the spot where a friend's remains 
were interred, would see that decency and order were 
maintained there, — but no more. 

Far be it from me to treat with neglect or disrespect 
that tenement which was thought worthy to become 
the habitation of an immortal soul. But I would 
beware lest, instead of following the glorified spirit to 
its new home, I bind my sympathies and interests to 
the empty tabernacle. 

It is difficult, at best, to sever our affections from 
the material. The eyes, the lips, the shining hair are 
so become a part of that we loved, that we send down 
our regrets into their dark grave, conscious as we are 
that all that made them possess a value, has ascended 
to the skies. 

Yet after all, it may be wise, in the neighborhood of 
a great city, to lay out such a Cemetery as Greenwood. 
In the crowded metropolis there is so much of life, so 
little to remind one of its close, — the keen strife of 
traffic so readily extinguishes the contemplation of 
Death, that it is often forgotten until it comes. It is 
impossible to visit the Cemetery without solemn and 
wholesome reflections. Therefore I am glad that it is 
attractive, and that the gay and the rich, — the two 
classes most to be pitied for their peculiar temptations, 
— resort there occasionally for a drive or walk. Better 
there than in Broadway. 

When I die, I would not have extraordinary pains 



LETTERS. 331 

bestowed upon the place where this poor frame shall 
lie. Bury it in silence and with few tears. To me, 
high above the stars, it would bring no happiness to 
know that my loved ones were rearing costly struc- 
tures in memory of me, or wasting gracious sympa- 
thies over my perishing remains. 

If they have wealth which they wish to devote to 
perpetuating the name of their friend, let them found 
some Charity for the poor, — some School, — or erect 
some Retreat for the penitent criminal, and call it after 
her ; but leave the earth-born form to mingle noiselessly 
with its parent clay. Affectionately, 

Mary. 



LETTER XLVII. 



Dear Mr. 



Brooklyn. 



I thought perhaps you did not go away to-day, and 

I should see you. S came to see me at twilight, 

and told me of your visit, conversation, &c. She said 
(by chance, I fancy, for it is not like her,) that you 
said something about l genius,' and so on, on speaking 
of my last letter to you. I was vexed enough to fling 
my flowers out of the window, and grieved enough to 
cry, but I did neither, and said nothing. 

Mr. , cannot you concede to me the common 

sympathies, feelings and necessities of humanity, with- 



332 LETTERS. 

out setting these down to the score of ''genius! ' Can 
I not even weep in a corner, or offer a friend the hum- 
blest offices of hospitality, without being accused of 
doing it with peculiar ' genius ? ' Oh ! if you knew 
how hateful to my ears is that word genius, — how it 
has been the poison and terror of my life, you would 
never associate it with me. If I had only been a 
beauty or a flirt, or danced well, or sung well, or pos- 
sessed some such every-day recommendation, I might 
have esteemed myself happy, — but a genius ! Hea- 
vens ! The word is a Medusa to turn love into admi- 
ration, and friendship into respect. I did believe you 
saw me, as I am, a plain, warm-hearted country girl, 
with a soul thrilled indeed with the wild beauty of her 
rugged hills, and learning of the thrush and blue-birds, 
her lovers, careless songs, but thoroughly human, trem- 
blingly alive to a kind word or look. I am so disap- 
pointed ; 1 thought you were my friend. I have always 
been trying to explode that unsubstantial fiction of 
genius, but it haunts me everywhere. I hope the 
angels will never cast it up at me. You will not then. 
This note will surprise you. I write from a quick 
impulse, that you may place to the score of that poor 
genius, if you please, or as / please, to that of faith 
in your kind indulgence of my wayward fancies. 



LETTERS. 333 

LETTER XLVIII. 

Albany, March 31, 1851. 

Dear Mr. . 

Pshaw ! This letter-writing is a miserable substitute 
for speech and hearing ! My warm fingers have damp- 
ened this paper with resting on it, and Nell's pen, which 
seems strange to me, and stiff and unmanageable, is 
sprung wide with my careless scratching on the desk. 
I have thought a summer evening's fill of witty, philo- 
sophic, poetic things that I could say to you, but like 
poor Dora's sum that ' wouldn't add up,' they will not 
write themselves down, — and this lazy hand ! You 
must believe me on trust. Your letter was a text-book 
of a hundred and fifty thoughts. I only wish you 
would, — I wish you could find out the 4 key-note of 
my spirit.' If it did not do you any good, it would 
certainly be an El Dorado to me. But the search 
would not pay ! What a strange, adventurous pursuit 
you would have of it ! What laborious travel, like 
that of Satan through Chaos, where he found • neither 
sea nor good dry ground.' What odds and ends of 
beautiful fancies, fiery imaginings, tender conceptions, 
— what tattered and cobwebbed draperies of reflection, 
what gleaming fragments of fiery resolve, what exqui- 
site beginnings without conclusion, what brilliant con- 
clusions that never had a commencement, hopes, pur- 
poses, influences, ideas, — elements that never obeyed 
Heaven's first law, — you would stumble among. I 



334 LETTERS. 

fear you would find no ' key' of any kind among this 
elegant rubbish. No wonder you do not understand 
all my letters. When I write most truthfully I am 
least clear. I can be as clear as a summer-brook, and 
as shallow. But this need not be so, only I am with- 
held by some inertia, I know not what, from remedying 
these evils. I know, and trembling own it, that a rich 
dowry has been lavished upon me. I know that much 
which many would exchange half a life for has been 
poured into my wasteful keeping. I know that I am 
the faithless steward of priceless wealth, and I weep 
and repent for my unprofitable stewardship, but never 
do better. My feeble soul stretches out her hands for 
help in vain. She needs none, but she has forgotten 
how to use her own power. Yet I am only making a 
dim matter more nebulous. My subject is so subtle, I 
cannot grasp it and hold it up to you clearly. I never 
tried to write of it before. So let it pass. 

Your letter, — you see this is nothing original, I am 
only replying, — took my very breath away at one 
page. I am glad the world is so wide ; I am glad I 
cannot see you ; I am very glad you cannot speak to 
me. You would kill me in a week with your ' con- 
centrated thought, feeling, passion,' your ' disciplined 
and spurred energy,' your « faithful, unwavering, un- 
tiring work,' so recommended to me. That is manly, 
and becomes you ; but poor I, alas, the daughter of the 
morning twilight, visited by memories of the early 
gleams, the glorious bird-songs, and the rustling leaf- 



LETTERS. 335 

voices that were twins with me, can never reach the 
bold noon. When I read Browning's Poems last sum- 
mer, reclining on the hill-side in a half dream, the 
words (commencing a chapter,) ^Paracelsus attains,' 
struck me like a flash of lightning. I closed the book, 
it dropped, and the veronicas were aware of a quick 
rain falling on their painted cups, as they grew close 
to me, for I never yet had attained ! 

I have said too much, — more than I ever did, — 
and you see the impossibility of fathoming this Sphynx 
riddle. There is no clue to this mortal labyrinth of 
which I am guardian. I wish there were. Life is a 
mystery, thought is a puzzle in every one, to every 
one ; in me the enigma is only a little more covert. 
But this consciousness of my peculiar spiritual consti- 
tution does much affect my daily goings on. When 
friends praise me, I dare not build my vanity thereon, 
for I know so well how much I have left undone. 
When envious people (of which, Heaven be praised, I 
believe there are but few,) speak despitefully of me, 
I comfort myself with the knowledge that I have ca- 
pacities and powers they never dreamed of; and when 
my lovers flatter me, I feel a sudden bright scorn flash 
up to my very eyes, and I could strike them, if it were 
womanly, for I know by how much I am above and 
below flattery. 

I have not cared to write much ever, — have com- 
posed a thousand poems that were never daguerre- 
otyped on paper. Within a day or two, however, I 



336 LETTERS. 

have set up a new resolution. I think I shall write 
more, and with greater carefulness than formerly. I 
am conscious of much unused power, have felt a 
naughty pride in knowing that my best thoughts, the 
finest conceptions of my mind, were my own. Did 
you think I used the full sweep of my pinions ? Did 
you suppose the nestling of the hills could mount no 
higher than where she could see the summer-brook and 
the flowers ? She did long believe that the folded 
wing was only to be spread in a purer ether, sunned 
in fadeless light. But a new and glorious youth has 
fallen upon her. Every nerve thrills with the gift of a 
fresh life. The world is so beautiful, existence so 
grand and wonderful a thing, she cannot but be strong 
in thought as in physical power. There is no stronger 
spirit beside her to uphold, lead forward, who has 
achieved more than she ; but it seems to her, — a fancy 
only, it must be, — as if there were such an one, on 
whose support she leaned, and to whose guidance she 
trusted. 

Mr. , won't you speak to me of these things 

by-and-by, in the solemn woods and on the silent hill- 
tops ? No one ever seemed to guess before that there 
might be something greater, deeper in my nature, than 
the visible and palpable. You look so clearly into 
things and seem so kind towards me, perhaps you will 
take the trouble to help me to a solution of the Prob- 
lem of Life. 

Your friend, Mary M. Chase. 



Boston, 135 Washington Stkeet. 
Decembkr, 1854. 



NEW BOOKS AND NEW EDITIONS 

PUBLISHED BY 

TICKNOR AND FIELDS 



THOMAS DE QUINCEY'S WRITINGS. 

CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER, AND 
SUSPIRIA DE PROFUNDIS. With Portrait. Price 75 cents. 

BIOGRAPHICAL ESSAYS. Price 75 cents. 

MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. Price 75 cents. 

THE CAESARS. Price 75 cents. 

LITERARY REMINISCENCES. 2 vols. Price $1.50. 

NARRATIVE AND MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS. 2 vols. 
Price $1.50. 

ESSAYS ON THE POETS, &c. 1 vol. 16mo. 75 cents. 

HISTORICAL AND CRITICAL ESSAYS. 2 vols. $1.50. 

AUTOBIOGRAPHIC SKETCHES. 1 vol. Price 75 cents. 

ESSAYS ON PHILOSOPHICAL WRITERS, &c. 2 vols. 

16mo. $1.50. 

LETTERS TO A YOUNG MAN, and Other Papers. 

1 vol. Price 75 cents. 

THEOLOGICAL ESSAYS AND OTHER PAPERS. 2 

Vols. Price $1.50. 

ALFRED TENNYSON'S WRITINGS. 

POETICAL WORKS. With Portrait. 2 vols. Cloth. $1.50. 
THE PRINCESS. Boards. Price 50 cents. 
IN MEMORIAM. Cloth. Price 75 cents. 



A LIST OP BOOKS PUBLISHED 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW'S WRITINGS. 

The Golden Legend. A Poem. Just Published. 

Price $1.00. 

Poetical Works. This edition contains the six Vol- 
umes mentioned below. In two volumes. 16mo. Boards. $2.00. 

In Separate Volumes, each 75 cents. 
Voices of the Night. 
Ballads and Other Poems. 
Spanish Student ; a Play in Three Acts. 
Belfry of Bruges, and Other Poems. 
Evangeline ; a Tale of Acadie. 
The Seaside and the Fireside. 

The Waif. A Collection of Poems. Edited by Longfellow. 
The Estray. A Collection of Poems. Edited by Longfellow. 

mr. Longfellow's prose works. 
HYPERION. A Romance. Price $1.00. 
OUTRE-MER. A Pilgrimage. Price $1.00. 
KAVANAGH. A Tale. Price 75 cents. 

Illustrated editions of Evangeline, Poems, Hyperion, and 
The Golden Legend. 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES'S WRITINGS. 

POETICAL WORKS. With fine Portrait. Boards. $1.00. 
ASTRiEA. Fancy paper. Price 25 cents. 



BARRY CORNWALL'S WRITINGS. 
ENGLISH SONGS AND OTHER SMALL POEMS. En- 

largod Edition. Price $1.00. 

ESSAYS AND TALES IN PROSE. 2 vols. Price $1.50. 



BY TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE'S WRITINGS. 

TWICE-TOLD TALES. Two volumes. Price $1.50. 
THE SCARLET LETTER. Price 75 cents. 
THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. Price $1.00. 
THE SNOW IMAGE, AND OTHER TWICE-TOLD 

TALES. Price 75 cents. 

THE BLITHEDALE ROMANCE. Price 75 cents. 
MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE. New Edition. 2 vols. 

Price $1.50. 

TRUE STORIES FROM HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY. 

With four fine Engravings. Price 75 cents. 

A WONDER-BOOK FOR GIRLS AND BOYS. With seven 

fine Engravings. Price 75 cents. 
TANGLEWOOD TALES. Another « Wonder-Book. ' With 

Engravings. Price 88 cents. 

LIFE OF GEN. PIERCE. 1 vol. 16mo. Cloth. 50 cts. 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL'S WRITINGS. 

COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS. Revised, with Additions. 
In two volumes, ltimo. Cloth. Price $1.50. 

SIR LAUNFAL. New Edition. Price 25 cents. 

A FABLE FOR CRITICS. New Edition. 

THE BIGLOW PAPERS. A New Edition. Price 63 cents. 



EDWIN P. WHIPPLE'S WRITINGS. 

ESSAYS AND REVIEWS. 2 vols. Price $2.00. 

LECTURES ON SUBJECTS CONNECTED WITH LIT- 
ERATURE AND LIFE. Price 63 cents. 

WASHINGTON AND THE REVOLUTION. Price 20 cts. 



A LIST OF BOOKS PUBLISHED 



JOHN G. WHITTIER'S WRITINGS. 

OLD PORTRAITS AND MODERN SKETCHES. 75 cents. 
MARGARET SMITH'S JOURNAL. Price 75 cents. 
SONGS OF LABOR, AND OTHER POEMS. Boards. 50 cts. 
THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. Cloth. 50 cents. 
LITERARY RECREATIONS AND MISCELLANIES. 

Cloth. $1.00. 

GEORGE S. HILLARD'S WRITINGS. 

SIX MONTHS IN ITALY. 2 vols. 16mo. Price $2.50. 
DANGERS AND DUTIES OF THE MERCANTILE 

PROFESSION. Price 25 cents. 

HENRY GILES'S WRITINGS. 

LECTURES, ESSAYS, AND MISCELLANEOUS WRIT- 
INGS. 2 Vols. Price $1.50. 
DISCOURSES ON LIFE. Price 75 cents. 
ILLUSTRATIONS OF GENIUS. Cloth. $1.00. 

R. H. STODDARD'S WRITINGS. 

POEMS. Cloth. Price 63 cents. 

ADVENTURES IN FAIRY LAND. Price 75 cents. 

BAYARD TAYLOR'S WRITINGS. 

ROMANCES, LYRICS AND SONGS. Cloth. Price 63 cents. 
POEMS OF THE ORIENT. Cloth. 75 cents. 

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL'S WRITINGS. 

POEMS, NARRATIVE AND LYRICAL. New Ed. $1.25. 
POSTHUMOUS POEMS. Boards. Price 50 cents. 
MINSTRELSY, ANC. AND MOD. 2 Vols. Boards. $1.50. 



BY TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 



GOETHE'S WRITINGS. 

WILHELM MEISTER. Translated by Thomas Carlyle. 

2 Vols. Price $2.50. 

GOETHE'S FAUST. Translated by Hayward. Price 75 cts. 

CAPT. MAYNE REID'S JUVENILE BOOKS. 

THE DESERT HOME, or, The Adventures of a Losx 

Family in the Wilderness. With fine plates, $1.00. 

THE BOY HUNTERS. With fine Plates. Just published. 

Price 75 cents. 

THE YOUNG VOYAGEURS, or, THE BOY HUNTERS 

IN THE NORTH. With Plates. Price 75 cents. 

THE FOREST EXILES. With fine plates. 75 cents. 

GRACE GREENWOOD'S WRITINGS. 

GREENWOOD LEAVES. 1st & 2d Series. $1.25 each. 
POETICAL WORKS. With fine Portrait. Price 75 cents. 
HISTORY OF MY PETS. With six fine Engravings. 

Scarlet cloth. Price 50 cents. 

RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. With six fine 

Engravings. Scarlet cloth. Price 50 cents. 

HAPS AND MISHAPS OF A TOUR IN EUROPE. 

Price $1.25. 

MERRIE ENGLAND. A new Juvenile. Price 75 cents. 

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD'S WRITINGS. 

OUR VILLAGE. Illustrated. 2 Vols. 16mo'. Price $2.50 
ATHERTON, AND OTHER STORIES. 1 Vlo. 16mo. $1.25. 

MRS. CROSLAND'S WRITINGS. 

LYDIA : A WOMAN'S BOOK. Cloth. Price 75 cents. 
ENGLISH TALES AND SKETCHES. Cloth. $1.00. 
MEMORABLE WOMEN. Illustrated. $1.00. 



A LIST OF BOOKS PUBLISHED 



MRS. JUDSON'S WRITINGS. 

ALDERBROOK. By Fanny Forester. 2 Vols. Price $1.75. 

THE KATHAYAN SLAVE, AND OTHER PAPERS. 
1 vol. Price 63 cents. 

MY TWO SISTERS : A Sketch from Memory. Price 50 cts. 



POETRY. 

ALEXANDER SMITH'S POEMS. 1 vol. 16mo. Cloth. 

Price 50 cents. 

CHARLES MACKAY'S POEMS. lVol. Cloth. Price $1.00. 
ROBERT BROWNING'S Poetical Works. 2 Vols. $2.00. 
HENRY ALFORD'S POEMS. Just out. Price $1.25. 
RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. Poems of Many Years. 

Boards. Price 75 cents. 

CHARLES SPR AGUE. Poetical and Prose Writings. With 
fine Portrait. Boards. Price 75 cents. 

THOMAS W. PARSONS. Poems. Price $1.00. 

ALICE CARY'S POEMS. $1.00. 

LYTERIA : A Dramatic Poem. Price G3 cents. 

JOHN G. SAXE. Poems. With Portrait. Boards, 63 cents. 

Cloth, 75 cents. 

HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. Poems. Cloth. Price 75 cents. 

BO WRING'S MATINS AND VESPERS. Price 50 cents. 

GEORGE LUNT. Lyric Poems, &c. 1 vol. Cloth. 63 cts. 

PHOZBE CAREY. Poems and Parodies. 75 cents. 

MEMORY AND HOPE. A Book of Poems referring to 
Childhood. Cloth. Price $2.00. 

THALATTA: A Book for the Sea-Side. 1 vol. 16mo. 
Cloth. Price 75 cents. 

PASSION-FLOWERS. 1 vol. 16mo. Price 75 cents. 

YRIARTE'S FABLES. Translated by G. H. Devereux. 
Price 63 cents. 



BY TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 

MRS. MOW ATT. Autobiography of an Actress. 1 vol. 
Mmo. Cloth. $1.25. 

WENSLEY: A STORY WITHOUT A MORAL. Price 75 cts. 
AN ART-STUDENT IN MUNICH. By Anna Mary 
Ho witt. Price $1.25. 

ESSAYS ON THE FORMATION OF OPINIONS AND 

THE PURSUIT OF TRUTH. 1vol. 16mo. Price $1.00. 

WALDEN: or, LIFE IN THE WOODS. By Henry D. 
THOREAU. 1vol. 16mo. Price $1.00. 

LIGHT ON THE DARK RIVER: or, MEMOIRS OF 

MRS. HAMLIN. 1 vol. 16nio. Cloth. Price $1.00. 
THE BARCLAYS OF BOSTON. By Mrs. H. G. Otis. 

1 vol. 12ino. $1.25. 

NOTES FROM LIFE. By Henry Taylor, author of 
'Philip Van Artevelde.' 1vol. 16mo. Cloth. Price 63 cents. 

REJECTED ADDRESSES. By Horace and James Smith. 

Boards, Price 50 cents. Cloth, 63 cents. 

WARRENIANA. A Companion to the ■ Rejected Addresses.' 

Price 63 cents. 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH'S BIOGRAPHY. By Dr. C. 

Wordsworth. 2 vols. Price $2.50. 

ART OF PROLONGING LIFE. By Hufeland. Edited 
by Erasmus Wilson, F. R. S. 1 vol. 16mo. Price 75 cents. 

JOSEPH T. BUCKINGHAM'S PERSONAL MEMOIRS 

AND RECOLLECTIONS OF EDITORIAL LIFE. With Portrait. 

2 vols. 16mo. Price $1.50. 

VILLAGE LIFE IN EGYPT. By the Author of 'Purple 

Tints of Paris.' 2 vols. 16mo. Price $1.25. 

DR. JOHN C. WARREN. The Preservation of Health, &c. 
1 Vol. Price 38 cents. 

PRIOR'S LIFE OF EDMUND BURKE. 2 vols. 16mo 

Price $2.00. 

NATURE IN DISEASE. By Dr. Jacob Bigelow. 1 vol. 

16mo. Price $1.50. 



BOOKS PUBLISHED BY TIUKNOR AND FIELD?. 



SERMONS. By Rev. Charles Lowell, D. D. Price $1.25. 
PALISSY THE POTTER. By the Author of < How to make 

Home Unhealthy.' 2 vols. 16mo. Price $1.50. 

WILLIAM MOUNTFORD. Thorpe: .A Quiet English 
Town, and Human Life therein. 16mo. Price $1.00. 

Mrs. A. C. LOWELL. Thoughts on the Education of 
Girls. Price 25 cents. 

CHARLES SUMNER. Orations and Speeches. 2 Yols. 

Price $2.50. 

HORACE MANN. A Few Thoughts for a Young Man. 

Price 25 cents. 

F. W. P. GREENWOOD. Sermons of Consolation. $1.00. 
MEMOIR OF THE BUCKMINSTERS, Father and Son. 

By Mrs. Lee. Price $1.25. 

THE SOLITARY OF JUAN FERNANDEZ. By the Author 

of Picciola. Price 50 cents. 

THE BOSTON BOOK. Price $1.25. 

ANGEL-YOICES. Price 38 cents. 

SIR ROGER DE COYERLEY. From the * Spectator.' 75 cts. 

S. T. WALLIS. Spain, her Institutions, Politics, and 
Public Men. Piice $1.00. 

MEMOIR OF ROBERT WHEATON. Price $1.00. 

RUTH, A New Novel by the Author of 'Mary Barton.' 

Cheap Edition. Price 38 cents. 

LABOR AND LOYE : A Tale of English Life. 50 cents. 

MRS. PUTNAM'S RECEIPT BOOK ; AN ASSISTANT 
TO HOUSEKEEPERS. 1vol. lGmo. Price 50 cents. 

HA.CH OP THE ABOVE POEMS AND PROSE WRITINGS, MAY BE HAD IN 
VARIOUS STYLES OP HANDSOME DIND1NQ. 



55" Any book published by Ticknor & Fields, will be sent by mail, 
postage free, on receipt of the publication price. 

Their stock of Miscellaneous Books is very complete, and they respectfully 
solicit orders from CITY AND COUNTRY LIBRARIES. 



639 












































































1 






